


inconsolable

by prettyluke (buttonjimin)



Category: 5 Seconds of Summer (Band)
Genre: Angst, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Implied/Referenced Domestic Violence, Inspired by Music, M/M, ashton and michael are fwb, ashton is in love with michael, i'm sorry bc he's actually lovely, like really sad, oliver is a meanie in this, pete and brendon are really tiny minor characters who were just there bc i felt like it, this is really sad and shit, unconsolable by x ambassadors
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-15
Updated: 2015-08-04
Packaged: 2018-04-04 13:58:17
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 30,700
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4140372
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/buttonjimin/pseuds/prettyluke
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>Ashton frowns suddenly when he grabs Michael’s far arm in an attempt to bring him back. A few purple splotches decorate the pale, fragile skin around his elbow. “Michael, what’s this?”</i><br/><i>Michael tugs, trying to remove his arm from Ashton’s worried grasp. “Let go.” All the vulnerability has disappeared, and now he’s darker, hardened.</i><br/><i>“Not until you tell me where you’re getting finger-shaped bruises.” Are there more, Ashton wonders? Beneath his shirt, where the light is lost?</i><br/><i>“Do you love me?” Michael asks, and in his surprise, Ashton’s grip slackens. Michael doesn’t bother removing his arm. “When you said everything you did, did you think you loved me?”</i><br/><i>“I—I don’t know,” Ashton stammers.</i><br/><i>“If you love me at all,” Michael says, “you’ll stop asking.”</i><br/>based on unconsolable by x ambassadors</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 1-1

When Michael shows up at Ashton’s flat, it’s half past midnight and Ashton’s priorities are far from entertaining his best friend with benefits. He drags himself out of the bed he just climbed into and trudges to the door, wiping sleep from his eyes and grumbling. He doesn’t even need to look through the keyhole; literally nobody but Michael would take the liberty to show up this late.

And without fail, when Ashton opens the door, Michael practically falls into the flat, draping himself over Ashton with limp limbs. Ashton stumbles back, letting out a surprised noise at the sudden weight hanging off him. He stabilizes and pulls Michael off him slightly. When he sees Michael’s face, it’s painfully clear that he can’t stand on his own, for a few reasons.

“Jesus, fucking shit,” Ashton swears, unable to stop himself at the sight of blooming bruises over Michael’s eyebrow and cheek, and a split lip. “What—have you been in a fight?”

Michael falls back over Ashton. “I love you.” It’s all he gets out. His words are unplanned, inebriated and fuzzy in his mouth.

Ashton can tell he’s been crying from the dampness shimmering over Michael’s face, can tell he’s been drinking from the smell of alcohol on his breath and clothes, and something must have happened. “Michael, babe,” Ashton says, knowing he shouldn’t call Michael endearing things when their relationship doesn’t allow for that. “Can you tell me what’s going on?”

Michael shakes his head and buries his head in Ashton’s neck. His hands grip at Ashton’s back, trying to maintain a grasp on him when his fingers keep slipping. “I’m okay. It’s all okay.”

“How much did you have to drink?”

“Five,” Michael says uncertainly. “Lots.”

Ashton runs a hand through his hair. “Yeah, okay. That’s a lot, babe, why were you drinking so much? Did something happen?”

“Wanna sleep here tonight,” Michael says instead, completely avoiding the question.

“Course you can. Let’s get to the bedroom, okay?”

“Coulda bought me dinner first,” Michael says, and the smile doesn’t come miles close to his eyes. He’s just wasted. Ashton soundlessly pulls the deadweight boy into his bedroom. He pushes Michael down on the bed, making quick work of all his clothes but his boxers. If he starts throwing up at any point, better he’s not wearing anything.

“I’m gonna get you some ice,” Ashton tells him, and Michael hums under his breath, staring up at the ceiling with dazed, glossy eyes. Without looking back, Ashton slips out of the room and heads for the kitchen.

His hands are uncertain as he pulls open a plastic bag and fills it with crushed ice and a small level of water to soften the feeling. He takes a deep breath and walks back to the bedroom.

Michael is thankfully still awake. Ashton sits on the bed next to Michael. He puts the ice in Michael’s hand, and Michael frowns. “Whaddo I need this for?”

“Put it over your face,” Ashton orders. “Hopefully it’ll take down the swelling.”

Michael looks dubious, but he takes the pack and brings it up to his face so fast it comes into contact with a loud smack. Ashton winces, but Michael seems content.

“You’re th’ best,” Michael mumbles. “Thanks.”

“Anything,” Ashton says. “Wanna tell me where those bruises came from?” He places his hand over Michael’s so that he can reroute the ice pack over an actual bruise.

Michael’s hand falls from the pack and he wraps his arms around himself. “No,” he says and tears brim up in his eyes. “Leave it alone.”

“Did you get in a fight?” Ashton continues.

“No, ’m fine, I _promise_.”

“What happened, huh?” Ashton says, moving the ice pack. “You can tell me, it’s okay.”

Michael’s voice is choked when he responds, and he reaches up and pushes Ashton’s hand away so he can turn on his side and hide his face from Ashton. Ashton sets the ice pack on the side table. “Walked into a wall, okay? I was just being stupid.”

“No,” Ashton says softly. “That can’t have done this. Did—did someone hit you, Michael?”

Michael is silent and a wave of sickness washes over Ashton. “Oh, Michael. Baby. Who was it?”

“Nobody,” Michael says quietly, snatching up the ice pack again. “Wanna go to sleep.”

Ashton looks over Michael’s prone body, lying loose-limbed across his bed. The bruises are hard to look at, but they don’t spread past his face. Michael’s eyes are already red and droopy, and he’s too drunk to even put an ice pack on his face without help. Ashton’s instinct is anger, not at Michael, but towards whoever made this happen. But right now Michael needs sleep and love, and whatever secrets he has to tell will surely last until morning.

“Okay,” Ashton says, sighing and squeezing into what space Michael has left. “Okay, let’s go to bed.”

He flips off the lamp, dragging the covers up around both of them.

“Goodnight, Michael,” he whispers, and falls asleep to the sound of the ice pack crackling under Michael’s fumbling fingers.

 

* * *

 

Ashton opens his eyes with the sunlight streaming past his crappy blinds, the bed empty on what was Michael’s side. His hands clutch at the sheets there as if he’d been holding Michael. Had he? It goes against the whole idea of them being platonic. Then again, showing up at your friend with benefits’ house drunk and beat up and in tears does imply a deeper emotional dependency than Ashton would care to admit.

His thoughts are quickly scattered by the attention-grabbing sound of someone retching in the bathroom—Michael, of course. Ashton is hardly surprised. He made it through the night, and that was miracle enough.

Unsurprised though he may be, unconcerned he is not. His regard for Michael’s wellbeing goes far beyond sex. It has to; he’s known Michael since his junior year, when he moved to Michael’s high school and the only people who would take in someone so late in the year was Michael and his freshie friends. The sex is relatively new; Ashton had refused to do anything until Michael was nearly seventeen for propriety reasons and the fact that he’d only just moved out.

Ashton opens the door of the bathroom and finds, as expected, Michael hugging the toilet bowl and throwing up rather violently. His lip, the other bruises have all swollen up, Ashton notes. Michael hardly seems to register his presence, he’s so caught up in purging out the alcohol.

“Good morning to you, too,” Ashton quips as Michael finally stops and gags. “I knew you were here when I woke up and heard someone throwing up in the bathroom.”

Ashton means it lightheartedly, to tease Michael, but Michael stares straight ahead, fingers trembling against the cold porcelain. His hair slicked to his forehead with sweat, he swallows hard and pulls himself shakily to his feet.

“Sorry,” Michael mumbles, and flushes the toilet. “I didn’t mean to—sorry.” He’s so small like this, sick and quiet. Ashton wonders if the bruises are so much of a reminder as to silence him.

“Hey, it’s fine,” Ashton says, softening. “Whatever you need.”

Michael nods numbly. “I should get home.”

“Wait,” Ashton says as Michael grabs his clothes from the floor. Michael ignores him. “What happened?” Michael is silent, still rapidly pulling on clothes. “Michael. Who hit you?”

Michael freezes, as if he didn’t expect the question. Maybe he forgot Ashton asked last night. Maybe no matter how many times he asks, Michael will always go cold all over. “Come on,” Ashton says, softer. “Let me help you.”

“I need to go home now,” Michael says, and makes for the door of the bedroom. “Leave me alone.”

Ashton calls desperately after him, “Michael! Wait!”

But Michael is gone in seconds, with nothing but his acid words burning in Ashton’s head.

 

* * *

 

Michael doesn’t show up for days.

This in itself does not worry Ashton. Michael is still in school, still has work and homework and parents to spend time with. He has Luke and Calum to hang out with. So no, he doesn’t really expect Michael to show up at his house.

That said, it’s completely unlike Michael to ignore texts (and yes, Ashton checked; he read them). He’s definitely, completely shutting Ashton out, and Ashton suspects it will continue as long as his persistent questions continue. Against his better judgment, he finally relents.

_Ash: fine, I won’t ask anymore. just please stop ignoring me_

And it works. Michael just texts, _okay_ , but that’s more than he’s gotten for days, so it’s okay, it’s good. They move on like nothing happened, only Ashton remembers.

He’s out with Luke the next week, driving to the guitar store. Luke has become increasingly more avid about his music, where Calum’s invested himself in football and Ashton has personally invested himself in college. And Michael? Well, hell if Ashton knows.

Luke’s on about some new video game now, and Ashton’s only half listening, truth be told.

“It’s fucking sick,” Luke enthuses. “You played yet?”

“Uh, no,” Ashton says. He needs no explanation; he doesn’t play any video games. “You know I don’t play. Maybe Harry’s heard of it, though.”

“Right, well, Michael showed it to me. Have to hand it to him. He’s the best gamer I know.”

Ashton squints. “Michael?”

Luke pauses. “Yeah, course. You know, funky haired, unathletic, vampiric kid we used to hang out with?”

“Stop fucking with me,” Ashton says irritably, and Luke smiles smugly. “I’m a college man now. I don’t have time for your childish antics.”

“Yeah, you’re fucking ancient.”

“But Michael, you seen him lately?” Ashton asks.

Luke shrugs. “He’s been at school, obviously. Oh, he’s got some nasty bruises, did he tell you? Got in a fight or something, I s’pose.”

“He said he got in a fight?”

“Well, not explicitly. I mean, he didn’t deny it.”

“Right,” Ashton sighs. “Of course he didn’t.”

“Has he been to see you, then?”

“Over the weekend. He showed up piss drunk in the middle of the night with a mashed up face. Wanted to crash at mine.”

Luke looks mildly concerned. “Michael doesn’t drink,” he argues. “Doesn’t even like the taste. We tried to get drunk before, when I turned 16, and he couldn’t finish the first drink.”

Ashton groans. “Please say this is not a regular thing since I left.”

“Ah, no. My mother keeps too close an eye on me, though my brothers did try to sneak me out once. Think Calum’s got sort of a taste for it. But not Michael. Michael’s straightedge.”

“At least some part of him is straight,” Ashton mutters. “Really, though. He was drunk this time, I swear.”

Luke shrugs, unconvinced. “Doesn’t sound like him. His face is looking better, though. Hey, you should come visit sometime. We haven’t seen you in ages.”

“College,” Ashton points out. “I’ll come Friday. When’s your lunch break?”

“Same as always,” Luke says. “It’ll be just like the old days.”

Ashton nods, but he knows it’ll be nothing like the old days.

 

* * *

 

In all honesty, Ashton brushes the thought of Michael from his mind. The incident is now two weeks past, and he has work, school to worry about. He and Michael talk sporadically. Usually by now Michael would have visited for less than innocent reasons, but they’re busy—Michael seems apathetic, especially, and Ashton isn’t willing to have halfhearted sex.

Today’s Friday, and it’s a _good_ day, because he had no school and no work and he’s had donuts for breakfast, but most importantly, he gets to see his little baby high schoolers.

He strolls into the school, thinking distantly that the school should really have better security, but he isn’t complaining. He hated this school; it’s always strangely cathartic to come back as a college student.

Lunch has just started, and he slips in among the hordes of students stampeding to the lunch line, making his way to the old table. He catches sight of the scene—Michael, sitting alone at the table. His head is propped in his hand, and his other fingers drum on the tabletop. The bruises have nearly faded, Luke’s right. And oh, how fortuitous it should be that Ashton gets him alone.

“Michael,” he calls, pushing through the swarm of kids to stand opposite Michael at the table. “Hey!”

Michael looks up in surprise, standing abruptly and his mouth flutters open and closed. He glances around very quickly, almost fearfully. Ashton’s smile falters, uncertain.

“Ashton,” Michael says hurriedly. “What are you doing here?”

“Visiting?” Ashton says, as if it’s obvious. “Luke asked me to.”

“Oh,” Michael says, hands fluttering around him. “How long are you staying?”

“Through lunch,” Ashton says, admittedly feeling defeated by Michael’s lack of enthusiasm. Before either boy can say anything else, Calum and Luke come in tandem, dropping their backpacks by the end of the table and ambushing Ashton in hugs that nearly bowl him over. It lifts his spirits a bit.

“Great to see you,” Calum says happily. “Didn’t know you would be here today.”

“Well, Jesus, Luke,” Ashton scolds. “Way to spread the news. Bet you wanted to surprise them with my delightful presence.”

Michael curses softly, looking over his shoulder at something, and Ashton sees Calum tense, and Luke says uneasily, “Speaking of surprises. Ash, there’s something we should have told you. Something Michael should have told you.”

Michael shakes his head violently, backing up slightly.

“What?” Ashton says, looking back and forth between Luke and Michael. Calum looks like he’d rather disappear.

“You’ve been replaced,” Luke says, trying to sound light but sounding unhappy instead. “Brace yourself.”

“You haven’t been replaced,” Michael denies. “He’s just, he’s just my—”

A boy comes up behind Michael and puts a hand on his shoulder; Michael jumps slightly, stepping aside from his touch. The boy is covered in tattoos, which strikes Ashton as odd, because it shouldn’t be legal at senior age, unless the boy is perhaps a late birthday who ended up being the oldest of the batch. He’s a good bit taller than Michael, as well.

“This is Michael’s boyfriend,” Calum says. “Oliver.”

Ashton feels like he took a sandbag to the gut. He shouldn’t, but he does. Why is he so blindsided? Why did nobody tell him? _Boyfriend?_ The word sours in his throat, as if he might spit it back out at Michael, make him reverse it.

“Oh,” Ashton says, and he must look as though he was slapped. _“Oh.”_

Michael ducks his head, face flaming, unable to meet Ashton’s eyes. Ashton can’t stop staring at Oliver. Is this why Michael’s been coming around increasingly less?

“Okay,” Luke says, clearing his throat awkwardly. “Oh. Uh, Oliver, this is Ashton. He’s—” He struggles to find a word. Okay, it’s not like he and Calum aren’t aware of the fact that Michael and Ashton have been fucking, but they don’t talk about it, and it seems incredibly inappropriate to bring that up around Michael’s—boyfriend. “Uh, Ashton is a friend. Best, friend. For about four years. He’s in college.”

Ashton flashes Luke a grateful, if forced smile. “Nice to meet you,” he says meekly, and sticks out a hand. Oliver takes it; his shake is slow, his hand dry and warm. Ashton takes a quick look at the tattoos scattered over his knuckles.

“Same,” Oliver says, withdrawing his hand. He puts an arm around Michael’s seemingly small shoulders and _fuck,_ Ashton hates this.

“Why don’t we eat lunch, then,” Calum says, taking the initiative and sitting down. “So, Ashton, what have you been up to?”

They all sit, and Ashton thinks that this must be the reason why Michael’s been distant, why he didn’t seem that excited to see him. Was he even planning on telling Ashton? It seems unfair, all things considered. It feels like he’s been keeping Oliver a secret from Ashton intentionally, and vice versa, although Ashton would feel a lot less hurt if he’d just been upfront. They were supposed to be no strings attached, anyway. Or, well, maybe Ashton would still feel like he’d been thrown against a wall.

Ashton can hardly focus on the conversation. He’s restless, lost in thought. His knee bounces, he’s drumming what’s in his head, on edge. Oliver is directly across from him with his stupid tattooed arm around Michael’s waist. _Be nice, be nice, be nice._

“How did you meet?” Oliver asks politely.

“Ashton was new in our freshman year and got rejected by, like, all the juniors,” Luke says helpfully. “I think it was the emo hair.”

Ashton doesn’t comment. He’s thinking about the way Michael’s back is curved forward where he hunches, almost, and this is wishful thinking on Ashton’s part, as if he doesn’t want to be held by Oliver. Still, Michael looks less strung up than when Oliver and Ashton met fifteen minutes ago.

“He was Michael’s friend first. We thought he was too cool for us.”

Ashton can’t believe nobody told him. A giant secret that his high schoolers deigned to keep from him. With the whole friends with benefits thing, Ashton did assume the whole friend aspect would not change. Clearly he has been mistaken—about quite a bit, too.

Finally, he can’t stand it anymore. When Michael gets up to go to the bathroom, he follows. Michael’s just finished at the urinal, the bathroom nearly empty, washing his hands at a cracked sink. Ashton walks in and says his name. He sees Michael look up at his reflection in the mirror, and disregard his presence.

 _“Hey,”_ Ashton says, taking him by the shoulder and spinning him around. Michael twitches away, shaking off his soaked hands. “You ignoring me?”

“Why would I?” Michael says.

“What is this about, Michael?”

“I don’t know what you mean,” Michael says stiffly.

“Fuck off,” Ashton says irritably. “How long, Michael?”

“Couple of months,” Michael says indifferently.

“Christ. And when were you going to tell me? You wanted to wait to humiliate me?”

“Don’t be melodramatic,” Michael snaps. “I am not required to make you privy to everything I do.”

“Oh, come on, Michael. You didn’t think this was worth mentioning? I was blindsided.”

“I didn’t even know you were coming!”

“So, what? Were you ever going to tell me? That’s not fair.”

Michael hisses out in frustration. “Why do you care? No strings attached.”

“Don’t be naive,” Ashton spits. “You know. You _know_ , Michael, that it doesn’t work like that.”

Michael stares at him for a moment, working out the implications. Ashton curses himself for being transparent. Michael says softly, “He asked me first. If you wanted me, why didn’t you just say?”

“Because we were _fucking!”_ Ashton screeches indignantly, the same second Oliver makes his appearance. _Fuck_ Oliver. Really, fuck him. He needs to talk to Michael and needs to talk to him now. Ashton is burning.

“Hope I’m not interrupting,” Oliver says smoothly. “Michael, babe, lunch is almost over. We should get to class.”

 _Babe_. Ashton looks at Oliver with such venom it’s visible. Oliver raises his eyebrows almost imperceptibly.

“You’re not interrupting,” Michael says stiffly. “Let’s go.”

He steps forward and Oliver does that annoying thing of slinging an arm over Michael’s shoulders. Ashton boils inside; Michael was his. He could have had him. But he was too late to realize. And now, Michael is pissed at him.

The bell rings, and Ashton flees.


	2. 1-2

Ashton stays on the couch for much of that night. He wonders if this is heartbreak. It probably doesn’t qualify; until today, he wasn’t convinced he loved Michael. But the kick of jealousy was pretty persuasive.

Still, he feels a little ill at the thought of Michael kissing someone else, holding someone else’s hand. Saying _I love you_.

Ashton sighs as his doorbell rings. This time he’s sure it’s not Michael. Michael probably doesn’t want anything to do with him. He reacted so immaturely. And Oliver definitely heard the last comment; he’s not sure if he wants it to have ruined their relationship or not. He could have handled it so much better.

He opens the door, carelessly aware of the fact that he’s in dirty sweatpants and a ripped t-shirt. The door swings towards him to reveal Luke and Calum, holding a pizza each and sharing a guilty, piteous look.

“Surprise,” Calum says weakly.

Ashton rubs his face. “What the fuck are you doing here?”

“We came to cheer you up?” Luke says uncertainly. “I mean, of course, if you need cheering up.”

“Or pizza,” Calum adds.

“I’m fine,” Ashton says evenly. He tries to straighten out his curls. “Why would I need cheering up?”

Calum gestures around the apartment. It’s a mess of discarded clothes and various food wrappers. The TV is still on. Honestly, it hasn’t even been a day, and Ashton’s already acting like he got dumped. Christ, they weren’t even together. It’s pathetic.

“Just a guess,” Calum says with a tight smile.

Ashton rolls his eyes. “What Michael does is none of my business. He can date who he likes.”

“Yeah, but, I mean, come _on_ ,” Luke argues. “You guys have been fucking.”

“Have not.”

“Please, I’ve read Michael’s texts to you,” Calum chimes in, nose wrinkling. “It’s pretty graphic. He seems awfully impressed with you, to be completely honest.”

Ashton rolls his eyes. “He wasn’t thinking about that today.”

“No, generally your dick isn’t on the forefront of everyone’s mind.”

Ashton stares up at the ceiling, sinking onto the couch. “We’ve been fucking long before Michael started seeing Oliver. I had him first.”

They exchange a look and sit down on various chairs around the room. “We wanted to tell you,” Luke defends. “We tried to get him to tell you. I mean, we knew you guys were—yeah. But he thought it would hurt your feelings and complicate things.”

“So he was just going to string me along, then,” Ashton says glumly. “I didn’t even _know_ I liked him until he said _boyfriend_ , and then I was so jealous I couldn’t stand it. I completely overreacted. Was he—mad?”

“Mad?” Calum says, brow furrowing. “No. He seemed almost nervous after. He seems nervous a lot.”

Ashton shakes his head. “I just can’t believe he didn’t tell me. I mean, forget sex. We’re still best friends, right? Right?” He looks so dejected all of a sudden.

Luke sits on top of his legs. “If it makes you feel better, we like Oliver about as much as you do.”

“Yeah, but you’re not trying to get in Michael’s pants.”

“You put it so tastefully,” Calum says.

“Why don’t you like him, then? What’s he actually like?” Ashton presses, relieved that someone else is anti-Oliver.  

Calum scrunches his nose and sits. “He just kind of showed up one day. I don’t know, he acts like he’s better than us. You know? And he’s so damn possessive over Michael. It’s like he thinks that we really are trying to get in Michael’s pants.”

Ashton groans. “The jealous type?”

“Not exactly. It’s like—he seems so cold. Not like he gets angry about Michael with other people, he gets this stone look on his face.”

“Arrogant asshole,” Luke says distastefully. “He wants so badly to prove that I don’t know the bands I wear. He’s into, like, heavy metal and stuff.”

“Oh,” Ashton says with a wince. “And all those tattoos?”

“Legal. He’s 19. He got held back a year.”

“Great,” Ashton says unhappily. “What does Michael see in the guy?”

“Beats me,” Luke says. “What are you gonna do?”

“What can I do?” Ashton says, throwing his hands up. “I’m sure as hell not going to harass him about it. ”

“Are you guys still gonna fuck?” Calum asks bluntly.

“Can you shut the fuck up?” Ashton says, flushing. “I don’t know. I’m gonna go over to his in the morning and talk to him.”

“Can we eat pizza now?” Luke says plaintively. “It’s getting cold. Also, I think you guys should still—”

“Literally _shut the fuck up_ , Luke.”

 

* * *

 

“I don’t want to talk,” Michael says, and nearly slams the door in Ashton’s face.

Ashton’s been standing on his doorstep for twenty minutes by now, and Michael only came to the door because Michael’s mother made him. After all that waiting, it seems only fair Michael should hear him out. He did come halfway across town, after all.

“Michael, stop,” Ashton says, pushing back against the door. “Michael, I’m sorry, don’t shut me out. Can we please just talk?”

“So you can act like an entitled prick again? Sorry, I’m oddly not that interested.”

“I’m sorry, hear me out,” Ashton begs. “Look, I just freaked out, okay? I was childish and I should have handled it better. Just please, don’t be mad.”

Michael’s jaw tenses, but he relents, letting go of the door. “We can’t talk here,” he says.

“Yeah,” Ashton agrees, relieved. “We can go somewhere else.”

Michael disappears into the house without warning, grabbing some shoes, before reappearing (to Ashton’s apparent relief).

They end up at the high school, sitting in the empty football stadium. The bleachers are hot against their skinny jeans, absorbing the light of the sun directly overhead. Michael won’t look at Ashton; he stares at the field some distance below,

“I’m sorry I reacted the way I did yesterday,” Ashton says, turning his hands over in his lap. “You’ve been so distant lately, but I thought—then you said you were dating Oliver, and I guess I was just surprised. I don’t know.”

“I should have told you,” Michael says, the admission unexpected. “I wanted to tell you. But I liked being close to you. I thought you wouldn’t want anything to do with me if we—had to stop. ’Cause, you’re like in college, and you must have better people to hang out with.”

Ashton blinks in the sunlight, taken aback. “I have other friends, yeah, but I wouldn’t just drop you because you got a boyfriend. Hell, Michael, I would have been a lot happier for you if you had just told me.”

“I know,” Michael says. “I know.”

“So now what? We can’t still do this.”

“We could,” Michael says hopefully. “Oliver doesn’t have to know.”

Ashton sighs. “I wish we could. But that’s such a shitty thing to do.”

Michael looks a little crestfallen. “Yeah, I know.”

“Hey, but we can still be friends like we always have been,” Ashton promises, reaching out as Michael angles his body away. “You can come over anytime, text me when you want. It’ll be like it was. Just without the sex.”

Ashton frowns suddenly when he grabs Michael’s far arm in an attempt to bring him back. A few purple splotches decorate the pale, fragile skin around his elbow. “Michael, what’s this?”

Michael tugs, trying to remove his arm from Ashton’s worried grasp. “Let go.” All the vulnerability has disappeared, and now he’s darker, hardened.

“Not until you tell me where you’re getting _finger-shaped bruises_.” Are there more, Ashton wonders? Beneath his shirt, where the light is lost?

“Do you love me?” Michael asks, and in his surprise, Ashton’s grip slackens. Michael doesn’t bother removing his arm. “When you said everything you did, did you think you loved me?”

“I—I don’t know,” Ashton stammers.

“If you love me at all,” Michael says, “you’ll stop asking.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've actually written most of this story so I'll be updating pretty often. it's one of my favorite things I've written too  
> love you xx


	3. 1-3

Ashton can’t count how many times he sees bruises appear over Michael’s skin. A month’s worth of bruises, ugly purple and green and maroon against pale, paper white. The first night, he could almost believe Michael had gotten in a fight. Some of the time, he can almost believe it was an accident.

But he keeps his mouth shut, because he’s not convinced that pushing will be worth losing Michael’s trust and confidence.

It’s not singularly what occupies his mind. He has school to worry about, though his grades are good and he’s on track. He’s at work a few hours on most days. His own family is on his mind. But when he shuts off the lights, the persisting thought is always Michael.

Ashton has always had a strong protective instinct for when things are not right. No change in mood is lost on him; even through electronic communication, with no face before him to discern the emotions, he can sense the nuanced shift in Michael’s disposition.

It’s unfair. Michael’s so pretty, with that lovely pale skin, complicated light eyes, and his dark lips. Ashton loves every piece of him. But Michael is altogether ruined by the extraneous colors that bleed under his skin.

“He’s killing me,” Ashton tells Calum when he broaches the subject. “Every time I say something, he shuts down.”

“I’m sure it’s nothing,” Calum says, although he seems unconvinced of it.

“You’ve _seen_ the bruises,” Ashton says. “They’re consistent. Where are they coming from?” On second thought, he adds, “Who are they coming from?”

“He just has a lot of accidents.”

“Yes, Cal. Too many. Michael’s not that clumsy, I know. I don’t want to be blind.”

“What, you think he’s being abused?” Calum says, almost scoffing. “Isn’t that a bit of a far jump?”

“Don’t be dense! ’S what it looks like, isn’t it?” Ashton says, glaring. “Admit it. It’s suspicious, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, but who?”

“I don’t know. His parents. Oliver. Is he getting bullied?”

Calum slows Ashton down. “Don’t jump to conclusions. His parents love him to pieces, and Oliver may be an asshole, but he wouldn’t do this to Michael either. And no, as far as I know he’s not getting bullied. I would have noticed, right?”

“I mean, we we think we know what’s going on, but clearly something’s slipping by. God, if only he’d just tell me.”

The question haunts him.

It kills him—really kills him inside—that he’s so useless to help Michael. He knows he has to wait for Michael to come to him, because it’s fruitless to press, but he worries by the time Michael’s ready, it might be too late. Whatever that might mean.

It’s difficult to keep up—Ashton has college, although he’s in the area,

Ashton doesn’t figure out what else is going on until Luke calls, just days after his conversation with Calum.

“Have you seen Michael recently?” Luke asks immediately.

“No?” Ashton says, feeling ambushed. “He doesn’t come around here much anymore. Since—you know.”

“Since Oliver,” Luke says, and there’s a crashing sound over the line.

“Hey, you okay?”

“Just swell. He won’t eat lunch with us anymore. It’s been days.”

Ashton takes that in, heart sinking. “Did you talk to him about it?”

“I tried, Ash. I’ve done everything. He won’t reply to my texts. I saw him in class, I asked where he’d been. Know what he said? He said, ‘I don’t think we should talk anymore.’ Who the _fuck_ does he think he is?”

“Calm down, Luke. I’ll—I’ll talk to him.”

“How?” Luke laughs derisively. “He’s not talking to _anybody_.”

“I don’t know, this isn’t like him. You’ve been friends for years. It’s the bruises—isn’t it? Are they worse?”

“Hardly. You go on and on about these bruises, but come _on_. Michael can’t be being abused. I haven’t even seen bruises for a while. It’s just too—extraordinary, I dunno.”

“Oh, don’t be so naive. Why else would he be acting like this?”

“I don’t know. I have homework to do, I gotta go. Talk to Michael. Maybe he’ll deign to respond to you instead.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Ashton sighs. “Night.”

Luke hangs up, and Ashton is left in a dark apartment, alone, to wonder about different scenarios and bruises and _Michael Michael Michael_.

 

* * *

 

Ashton is so estranged from Michael that when he sees him a month later, he is struck speechless.

It’s by chance, it’s completely coincidence Ashton finds him. He’s in a bar for the night, one of the shitty pubs in the area of his college campus, and, well, Ashton is still a sucker for cheap liquor. He’s a little buzzed, but not enough to stop him from recognizing Michael, in a black long-sleeved shirt, cradling a glass on the end of the bar. Ashton finds it difficult to believe that it’s really Michael, not some stranger with washed out bleached hair and faded eyes.

It’s difficult, too, to believe that behind the amalgamation of bruises, it’s still the same boy.

“Michael,” Ashton yells out of instinct, and Michael glances up and looks away quickly. Ashton’s not willing to give up so easily. “Hey. Michael.”

He makes his way over to Michael and Michael seems to shrink, folding in on himself and averting his eyes. Ashton has never been so quickly dissuaded.

“Michael,” Ashton says when he finally sinks down next to him. “Hey. Where’ve you been?”

Michael sounds so small when he says, “Same places I’ve always been.” Up close, Ashton can tell his eyes are bloodshot, and his hands are unsteady on his glass. His words slip like his fingers, his eyes won’t lift to see Ashton’s. He keeps his body angled away as if to shield himself.

“Not what I’ve heard,” Ashton says.

“What have you heard?” Michael asks, taking another sip of his drink. He shudders as he swallows. It smells so strong Ashton can smell it on his breath already.

“They said you don’t talk to them anymore,” Ashton says. “Guess you don’t talk to anyone anymore.”

Michael nods absently, rubbing at his eyes with a black sleeve. Seems his eyes are always red rimmed and grey when Ashton sees him now. “Guess that’s what’s best.”

Ashton is aware of the acute pain in his chest. To see Michael here now, alive, maybe less alive than he was but real and tangible and _alive_ , that’s painful.

“Your graduation is next week,” Ashton says. “I’m gonna come.”

“For Luke and Calum?”

“You, too, if you want,” Ashton says. Michael is quiet at that, and Ashton feels a pang. “Or do you not want me to come?”

“Go for them,” Michael says, his pale knuckles grazing his face. Ashton cranes his neck, trying to see. “To see them.”

“Yeah,” Ashton says after a moment. “I’ll still be there for you. If you change your mind.” Michael’s hand lies on the table now, and Ashton tracks the blackened, circular marks with his eyes.

Burns.

He reaches out to touch Michael’s hand, as if he can move his rough fingers over Michael’s soft skin and erase them, but Michael yanks his hand back abruptly, startled through his drunk haze.

“I’m sorry,” Ashton says, drawing back. “I didn’t mean to.”

Though he knows he shouldn’t leave Michael drunk in some lowlife pub on the edge of town, he can’t bear to look at him any longer, and for the first time, he is the one to flee.


	4. 1-4

“Michael Clifford!”

The December sun is hot on Ashton’s back as he rises to his feet to see Michael make his way to the stage to receive his diploma. He’s surprised and pleased to see the bruises have nearly faded from when he last saw him. It’s hard to tell from a distance, but he does his best all the same.

Luke and Calum get called up in quick succession, having close surnames. Ashton goes full out cheering the way he always thought he would for all three of them. His babies are graduating. He’s so proud, even if it is bittersweet.

After the ceremony is over, the graduates file out of the stadium and Ashton pulls himself to his feet to meet Luke and Calum. They wait at the bottom of the bleachers for him, hugging people as they pass and congratulate them. Ashton subconsciously scans for Michael, too.

“Congrats, you two,” he says warmly, pulling them into either side of him to hug them simultaneously. “Didn’t think you would actually pass high school.”

“Ha, ha, very funny,” Calum says, shoving him away. “How many As did you pass with, again?”

“That’s cute, real cute. You guys seen Michael today?”

Luke shakes his head, burrowing closer to Ashton. “I expect he’s with Oliver.”

“Son of a bitch. Would you guys kill me if I went to find him? It is grad, after all,” Ashton says flippantly. “Gotta see my child at least once more.”

“Don’t call him your child, you have done unspeakable things with him,” Calum says with a shudder.

“Ah, he’s still my child,” Ashton says. “Don’t you guys have a party to get to, or what?”

“There are a few, I suppose,” Calum says. “I dunno, Luke, you down?”

“If you want,” he replies.

“Let’s find our parents and go. Have fun finding your lover, Ash.”

“As always,” he smirks. It’s like old times again, like they’ve just decided to ignore the fact that Michael has completely changed.

They sneak in a last hug before they’re off to wherever. Ashton lets out a breath and starts scanning for Michael. He saw him last heading to the quad, and he starts off that way, pushing through the teeming masses of graduates and their families.

He can’t find Michael, wherever he looks; he sees Oliver smoking a cigarette on the outskirts, but he figured he would rather not attract attention to his presence, and tip him off that he’s looking for Michael.

Someone Ashton can’t quite place catches his arm. “Ashton! Mate! I haven’t seen you in ages.”

“Yeah,” Ashton says, and he feels like a jerk for not being able to put a name or situation to this kid. “Good to see you. Congrats on graduating.”

“Thanks, thanks. You going to any of the parties? There are, like, five.”

“Not my scene,” Ashton says with a forced smile. “Hey, you seen Michael?”

“Michael?”

“Michael, Michael Clifford.”

The kid’s eyes light up. “Kid with the piercings and blue hair?”

“Yeah, that’s the one,” Ashton says, fidgeting. “Need to find him.”

“I think I saw him heading to the bathrooms. I’ll see you around, yeah?”

“Thanks for your help, Justin,” he says.

“It’s Jack,” the kid says, smile fading. Ashton ignores this and takes off for the bathrooms.

It’s funny, seeing that Ashton confronted Michael in this same bathroom months earlier. He’d had absolutely no idea what was to come; how much things have changed in a few months. Ashton wonders if Michael will be angry with him sober, stiff and unforgiving.

To his surprise and relative relief, Michael stands at the sink. It oddly mirrors their encounter here that time. Ashton has little clue how similar and probably worse it will be this time.

Ashton pauses in the doorway. His heart catches in his throat. Michael’s wet hands tug at his face, dragging away streaks of light coloring. In areas his fingers have scraped at, purple begins to show through. What healing Ashton was sure he saw, was merely makeup. The bruises remain.

He begins scrubbing off his hands and up his arm, too, and then Ashton says, “Oh.”

Michael freezes, realizing who he thought was another graduate is simply Ashton.

“You always seem to find me,” Michael says dully, washing his face tenderly, wincing as he rubs too hard over a bruise. “You following me?”

“They always told me to follow my dreams,” Ashton says dryly, folding his arms.

“Always the charmer,” Michael says, scrubbing away the last of the makeup over his hands and arms. Ashton can hardly stand to look.

“Are those cigarette burns, Michael?” Ashton asks, his eyebrows pinching together. “You don’t smoke, do you?”

“No,” Michael says. “Don’t you have somewhere to be?”

“Came here just for you,” Ashton says. He takes a breath. “Is it your parents, Michael? Tell me it’s not your parents.”

“Course not,” Michael scoffs.

“Is it other kids? Is someone bashing you up?”

“Just say it, Ash,” Michael says, his movements halting. “I know you want to. You’ve guessed. You know.”

Ashton lowers his eyes, having the grace at least to do so. “Oliver.”

The oxygen seems to drain from the room in a rush, from both boys, because even though they both knew it was coming, Ashton has been afraid to say it, and Michael was afraid to hear it. When Ashton lets the words out, it’s suddenly real.

“It’s Oliver, isn’t it?” Ashton says again, and Michael’s hands are shaking. “Why are you with him, Michael?”

“You don’t understand,” Michael says desperately.

“What is there to understand?” Ashton says, pained. “He’s hurting you.”

“He _loves_ me,” Michael says, trembling. He can’t look at himself in the mirror; he dries his hands on his pants and his watery gaze falls.

“No, Michael, this isn’t love,” Ashton says sadly, taking a burn-marked hand in his own. “This is abuse. Don’t you want to get out of there?”

“I’m an adult,” Michael says. “I can take care of myself, Ash.”

“High school is over, you don’t have to see him again,” Ashton pleads.

Michael falls silent, eyes dropping to where their hands meet. He seems so tired, so young to Ashton; he’s so hopelessly entangled in this battle he can’t fight.

“I’m moving in with him, Ash,” he says, his voice choked. “Don’t—don’t be mad.”

“No,” Ashton says, horrified. “Michael, you can’t. He’ll k—”

“Ashton, don’t,” Michael says softly, pulling his hand from Ashton’s grasp. “I can handle it. I’m not a kid anymore.” As an afterthought, perhaps, he adds, “I love him. And he loves me. This will pass.”

“You’re naive,” Ashton says. “I don’t want you to be hurt all the time. You have to leave if it gets bad. Promise me that, at the least. You’ll come to me if you can’t take it. You are _always_ welcome with me, understand?”

Michael bites his lip, nodding, and suddenly rushes forward into Ashton’s arms. “I’ll be okay,” he promises, burying his nose in Ashton’s shoulder. He’s cold, shivering under the tile ceiling.

“You better be,” Ashton says, shaking his head. “Or Oliver will answer for it.”

“Answer to who?” Michael says despairingly.

“Me,” Ashton says without hesitation. He rubs circles over Michael’s back. “I’ll always be there.”

 

* * *

 

It fucking kills Ashton to see the boy he loves walk right back into the arms of the man he _knows_ is an abusive asshole. It’s so obvious to him now. He thought, in the back of his mind, maybe, but to _know_ —he starts to really think about it.

It all makes sense.  The burn marks—Oliver smokes. The way Michael always seems nervous, always shrinks around him. His hesitance to introduce Ashton to Oliver. Ashton is hardly an expert on abuse, but he would guess this is pretty in line.

And his poor baby Michael.

It feels so incredibly wrong to have just let Michael go, to let him get hurt again. To have Michael in his arms for a minute was so painful. He should have stopped him, should have taken him home and laid him under the stars and covered his body with his own and loved him, _loved him._

But he didn’t.

He had to let Michael go. He had to force himself to send him back to Oliver, because Michael is an adult and Ashton cannot drag him out of that relationship. He cannot stand to wait until it gets drastic, but what else can he do?

Michael calls him on Sunday to ask for help moving in, and Ashton is torn between wanting to see Michael to make sure he’s okay and staying as far away as possible lest he make things worse with his presence. Hell, he loathes the thought of helping Michael with something that will lead to such a sinister end. But he agrees eventually, because his need to protect Michael steps in and forces his hand.

“You’re not taking much stuff,” Ashton comments as he walks out the front door to his car to stow the box currently sitting in his arms. “Fallback?”

“Don’t need a fallback,” Michael says flippantly. “It’s gonna work out, promise.”

“And what’s all this alcohol?” Ashton frowns. “You’re not picking up a habit, are you?”

“Hardly,” Michael says, averting his eyes. “It’s just beer.”

“Quite a bit of it,” Ashton says. “No mind, let’s just make this fast, alright?”

Michael’s forehead creases, and he nods. “Okay.”

“Ready?” Ashton says, climbing into the driver’s side. Michael gets in opposite. He’s quiet, which is more and more normal these days.

“As much as I’ll ever be,” Michael mumbles.

Ashton shouldn’t enable this move in, but dear Jesus, he has to make sure it’s safe since Michael is so set on it.

When they get to Oliver’s place, they start unloading the boxes. Ashton is dreading seeing him again. He’s so angry that anybody would hurt Michael, damage that delicate flower of a boy with fragile bones.

Michael climbs out of the car somewhat apprehensively, glancing up at the small house. Oliver must have a serious job to pay for it.

“Here we are,” Ashton says, sighing. “Michael. Please think this through. You don’t have to move in with the rat bastard. There are options. He’s done bad things to you.”

Michael sets his jaw. “I love him, Ashton. It’s okay, because he loves me too.”

Ashton’s voice dies in his throat. Michael loves him. Michael only _thinks_ he loves him, and Ashton can’t believe he thinks Oliver loves him back after this.

“Please, Michael,” he says again, quieter.

Michael shakes his head wordlessly and starts moving toward the house. Ashton swears under his breath and follows him up, waiting as Michael knocks on the door. Ashton wonders why he doesn’t have a key.

A minute later, the door opens. Ashton’s skin crawls at the sight of Oliver. At the sight of those big hands and broad shoulders, the expanding tattoos coming up under his neck like they choke him. He should have known Oliver was bad news. He hates the way Michael stares up at him with those big eyes, fumbling with the box in his arms, and Oliver merely steps aside, clearly caring less that Michael pitches forward and nearly spills the contents of the box.

Ashton makes as if to step into the house, but Oliver does not step aside, and Michael reappears quickly to grab the other boxes from Ashton.

“Can you give me a second with him?” Michael asks Oliver timidly.

“Just a second,” Oliver says. “Make it fast.”

Michael nods hurriedly, and fills up the doorframe as best he can with his small frame, shielding Ashton from sight. “Thanks for helping,” he says, folding his hands.

“Yeah,” Ashton says. “Be safe, yeah?”

Michael nods. “It’s gonna be okay.”

“You know where I am,” Ashton says. He sighs. “Can I hug you?”

Michael glances over his shoulder and then shakes his head, whispering, “He’s watching. Don’t wanna make him mad at me.”

Ashton steps off the porch backwards, looking sadly at Michael. “I’ll see you?”

Michael raises a parting hand before disappearing into the house.

Ashton gets in his car and drives.

He doesn’t give in to the ache in his chest until he hits the edge of the highway, and instead of pulling forward, he swerves onto a side street and pulls over, switching off the engine. Then he leans forward, resting his head and arms on the steering wheel, shaking like a leaf in the wind.

 

* * *

 

Not a week later, Michael’s calling again.

Ashton’s at Luke’s place for once, lounging on his bed while Luke plays some game on the computer. The afternoon has been lazy, both of them on winter break and enjoying the sun.

“Ashton,” Michael starts, and he sounds anxious.

“Hey,” Ashton says, sitting up slightly. “Everything okay?”

“Yeah,” Michael says. “Yeah, I—I wanted to talk to someone, is all.”

“You sure you’re okay?”

“I mean—I’m just, I’m alone in the house,” Michael admits. “I’m just, I don’t know.”

“Michael, what’s going on?”

“I’m lonely, Ashton,” Michael says miserably. “I’m sad.”

“Hey, it’s alright,” Ashton says. “How’s it been?”

“Same as always,” Michael says fretfully. “He’s been—”

“Hitting again?”

“Yeah,” Michael says, low. “Don’t freak out. I—I deserved it.”

“Oh, fuck no,” Ashton says, earning a bewildered glance from Luke. “What’d you do?”

“Just, dropped things,” Michael says, and Ashton winces. “Didn’t keep my stuff straight.”

“You don’t deserve that. Next time things get bad, just leave, come to mine. Please.”

“Yeah,” Michael says unconvincingly. After a pause, he says, quieter this time, “He’s home. I gotta go.”

“Be safe,” Ashton says, but Michael hangs up before he can finish.

 

* * *

 

Ashton never thought, of course, that Michael would actually come to his house. He wasn’t even sure Michael would have the clarity when the situation arose, let alone the will to. He’s never been abused, nor known anyone who’s been abused, and so he can only imagine what happens. Does Michael cry, beg? Is he shaken speechless? Ashton doesn’t really want to know; it’s all loose speculation.

He’s seen Michael afterwards, of course. He’s seen Michael recede from a vibrant, bright-eyed seventeen-year-old to a nervous, damaged child. The cumulative effect is transformative.

And Michael’s head is so addled Ashton wouldn’t know if he would even remember Ashton’s plea. So when Ashton returns home from work one Thursday night, he is unpleasantly surprised by the group in front of his door.

Brendon and Pete from across the hall are sitting with him, rejected ice packs and bandages scattered around them. Michael sits between them, shoulders hunched, his eyes huge.

“Michael,” Ashton says in shock, hurrying to drop to his knees before him. There’s a nasty looking scratch across his face and shiny swelling here and there that Ashton knows will bruise, and his nose is leaking blood at an alarming rate. A set of finger-shaped bruises, already darkening on his pale skin, laced like a noose around his neck.

“He wouldn’t come inside,” Pete explains. “Wanted to wait for you. He wouldn’t let us touch him.”

“Oh,” Ashton breathes. “Thanks. I’ll—take it from here.”

“No problem,” Brendon says, patting Ashton’s shoulder. “Hope he’ll be alright.”

When they disappear, Ashton reaches under Michael’s arms to pull him upright, and Michael leans forward, burying his face in Ashton’s neck. His whole body is shaking, and his fingers curl hesitantly into Ashton’s shirt. “I’m sorry,” he whispers, and the shoulder of Ashton’s t-shirt clings to his skin when it becomes damp.

“No need,” Ashton says. “We need to get some ice on those bruises and clean up your nose. You’ll be okay in a few minutes.”

Okay, of course, extends beyond Michael’s face. Michael won’t be okay for a while. Ashton can’t let him go back this time. He can’t wait for Michael to break.

Ashton half-lifts Michael onto the kitchen counter, grabbing ice from the fridge. He makes a few makeshift ice packs and wets a paper towel from the sink. Michael’s jaw is tense; Ashton grazes his thumb across it to wipe a tear. His eyes are so heavy and shadowed, and he is so quiet that Ashton feels the sobriety of the moment.

Ashton dabs at Michael’s upper lip to wipe off the blood. Michael jerks at the gesture, either from pain or fear, Ashton isn’t sure. Ashton gently tips his head up, aware of the red stains on Michael’s trembling hands and worn jeans. He thinks this must be the right thing to do for bloody noses, and hopes it isn’t broken. He touches the wet paper towel to Michael’s cheek where the scratch is raw, promising disinfectant when he finds it.

When Michael is looking a little better, Ashton sighs and leans forward, looking up at Michael’s face. He still looks teary and quiet, and Ashton is struggling with the bruises on his neck. He can see them clearly when Michael swallows.

“I don’t have the medical supplies for this,” Ashton admits. “You’re sucking me dry.” Michael is silent, waiting. Ashton shakes his head. “We can’t keep doing this, Michael.”

“It’ll be okay,” Michael says, repeating the phrase.

“What did you do?”

Michael shakes his head, lacing his hands together. “Doesn’t matter.”

“No,” Ashton agrees softly. “It doesn’t.” He strokes Michael’s hand. “Is there more? Under your shirt?”

Michael nods numbly.

“Can you show me?” Ashton asks, releasing his hand. “I just wanna make sure it’s nothing bad.”

Michael hesitates, falling into Ashton’s arms as he slips off the counter. It occurs to Ashton that for him to be this boneless and dependent, he must be in a hell of a lot of pain. In front of Ashton, facing the windows that look upon the streets outside instead of Ashton’s sympathetic gaze, he slowly tugs off his t-shirt.

Ashton is sure to be silent when he sees the trail of bruises littering Michael’s back along his visible spine, sharp vertebrae like buttons down his back. Ashton takes him lightly by the shoulders and turns him around, and Michael’s head falls almost in shame, avoiding Ashton’s eyes. More bruises, nasty ones, all across his torso, but nothing gaping or broken, as far as he can tell.

“Okay,” Ashton say. “You’re alright, Michael. You gonna stay the night?”

Michael stoops to pick up his t-shirt and conceals his torso again. “He’ll kill me if I go back,” he says. “But he’ll be so mad if he knows I stayed.”

Ashton pulls him close, kissing his cool forehead and smoothing out his hair. “You don’t have to go back in the morning,” he says, aching. “You don’t have to go back ever again.”

But as he settles next to Michael in bed that night, he knows, come morning, that Michael will crawl right back again.

 

* * *

 

Michael is punchy in the mornings.

“Don’t go back,” Ashton begs, clinging to his arm.

“Let go, Ash,” Michael says, borderline edgy. “I gotta go back.”

“Stay, don’t go. He’s gonna hurt you. I don’t want him to touch you again.”

“I have to go back,” Michael repeats. “He’s waiting for me.”

“Jesus, you can’t keep crawling back,” Ashton says exhaustedly.

“Stop, Ash,” Michael snaps then. “Don’t treat me like I’m six. I am an adult. I live there now.”

“Come on, Michael. Are you just gonna keep coming round here after he beats on you, then go right back and pretend it didn’t happen? I bet he tells you he loves you, doesn’t he? Bet he kisses his knuckles right before he punches you in the face.”

Michael freezes up, tensing. There’s hurt in his eyes and Ashton’s gone too far, he should have been kinder, but Ashton’s burning inside, he wants Michael to leave Oliver for good and he doesn’t know how to help anymore.

“Don’t ,” Michael says, yanking open the door. “Just don’t, Ash. I’m leaving.”

“Michael, wait,” Ashton says, melting. “I didn’t mean it, I’m sorry. Don’t go back. He’s gonna hurt you again. You have to get out of there.”

“Fuck you,” Michael says, starting to cry. “You don’t get it. He loves me. Why can’t you accept that?”

“Because I can’t stand seeing you like this,” Ashton says, face falling.

“You don’t have to,” Michael says. “I won’t come back, I _promise_.”

“Michael—” Ashton says, lurching forward to grab his arm, but Michael is gone in a heartbeat and a slam of the door, and Ashton knows this is the worst way he could have fucked up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a super long chapter for ya  
> it would be nice to hear some feedback so if you guys want to leave me a comment and let me know how you feel about this story i would really appreciate it <3  
> i love you all xx


	5. 1-5

Ashton is afraid more than anything else.

Michael will think he doesn’t want him anymore, and maybe now when things get bad he’ll have nowhere to go. He didn’t mean to shut Michael off. Once again, his emotion got the better of him and led him to act in an untowards way. It’s not Michael’s fault, but he attacked him all the same.

Ash: _I’m sorry. you can still come round here if you need. I went too far. be safe bby. xx_

It’s gutsy—“baby” and kisses in one text. Hopefully, Michael isn’t too upset to accept the apology. Ashton just wants him to be safe.

That night, Michael texts back, _I don’t think we should be friends anymore._

And oh, Ashton might fall apart completely. Finding out he had a boyfriend wasn’t heartbreak; losing Michael over the boyfriend is heartbreak. Ashton cannot stop kicking himself for fucking up. If Michael gets seriously hurt now, he can consider it his fault in all entirety.

He worries endlessly.

He finds little solace in Calum and Luke, who tell him it was a miracle he and Michael kept touch this long. He doesn’t know what to do about Michael, so he stays home for a few days, overwhelmed. College can wait, work can wait. He feels coincidentally ill in any case, which is mostly likely just stress.

On the fourth day, he returns to normal life the best way he knows how.

Forget Michael—Ashton has enough on his plate. Michael is an adult and Ashton cannot control him. Michael will survive on his own.

Ashton doesn’t feel much better.

Maybe Michael was able to survive on his own before, but Ashton has seen the way he’s faded, the jittery nerves, and he doesn’t believe his own words now. What if Michael isn’t okay? What then?

It’s not like they used to talk everyday, but Ashton notices his absence all the time. When his hand itches for his cell, Michael flashes through his eyes, and he remembers again. He looks for Michael in the local bars and pubs, but seeing his face is only Ashton’s overactive imagination.

And so the month drags on.

 

* * *

 

Ashton is eating dinner about two weeks before he knows the other boys are due to start college. He’s caught up with some issue he’d had at work, some discrepancy in the bookkeeping that isn’t his fault but might as well be for all the time he’s spent with his head in the clouds. His boss had noted it and asked if he needed a week off—very generously, Ashton would add. But he thinks that work is rather a welcome distraction from everything that has troubled him lately.

That said, he can barely enjoy his pasta. It’s evening, the sky dimming and Ashton feeling that passive loneliness that often eats at his bones overnight. He’s too busy for friends; he barely has time to just worry about Michael on top of everything.

And yes, he’s not done with that.

The question plagues him. Is Michael okay?

He sighs. The soft strains of his speakers playing gentle lo-fi ambient music plays in the background, interspersed with deliberate static crackling. Ashton feels like things are moving slowly, slowly, like a drug haze. When someone starts rattling the doorknob, he feels jolted.

He gets up from the table and makes his way to the door. If this is some high schooler playing a prank, Ashton doesn’t have the willpower to deal with it. Either that or it’s Luke or Calum, and he told them to stop surprise visiting, he’s pretty sure.

But when Michael crashes through the door, Ashton can hardly _breathe_.

No.

_No._

Michael collapses into Ashton’s arms, coughing, his whole body racked with the force. Ashton stumbles, unable to comprehend the sight. Michael’s blood-smeared hands tear at Ashton’s arms as he tries to stand on his own, gasping for air. His nose is bleeding again, his mouth is flecked with blood. There’s such an overwhelming amount of blood Ashton forgets how to speak.

“Oh my god,” Ashton chokes, struggling to hold Michael upright. Michael keeps sliding down, aching to get to the ground. Michael seems to try to say something, but nothing comes out, and instead it triggers another violent round of coughs that have blood spattering the front of Ashton’s t-shirt. Michael claws at his arms still, using the last of his strength to stay up. “Oh my god. Michael—”

Michael tilts his head up, trying desperately to see Ashton’s face. Ashton gives out and falls to his knees with Michael cradled in his arms with the impact of the world sliding from Atlas’s shoulders. Ashton reaches out a hand to support the back of Michael’s head and his hand comes away stained red.

Ashton realizes with a shock that he should get Michael to a hospital. There’s so much blood Ashton is overwhelmed. This is out of Ashton’s hands, this is way beyond his limited first aid knowledge.

Ashton lets Michael slide from his lap, whispering, “I’ll be back, stay here” as if Michael could actually get anywhere far. Ashton doesn’t even know how he made it here, in the kind of shape he’s in. He’s afraid that Michael will choke on his own blood in his throat and drown, and Ashton is shaking when he finally grabs his cell phone, going to kneel over Michael as he does.

He babbles to the monitor for a few minutes about _Michael_ and _hurt_ and _blood_. The words are unheeded, panicked. When the monitor finally assures him for the last time that an ambulance will be dispatched within minutes, Ashton brings himself to believe it and puts his phone down.

Michael’s breathing is shallow and only visible by a slight, staggered rise and fall in his chest. His eyes are half shut, and Ashton thinks he must be desperate just to let go, but every now and then he folds up like an accordion, convulsing and spitting out blood that Ashton wipes away with the hem of his t-shirt. He keeps Michael’s head propped over his knee, fingers resting on his inner arm.

“You’re gonna be okay,” Ashton whispers to him, stroking his skin. His fingers trail down to Michael’s hand, reaching to hold it and retracting his arm when he sees the gravel-studded, shredded skin. “It’s over, Michael.”

Michael barely stirs, and Ashton smooths back his matted hair to kiss his forehead. Ashton can’t bear to see his eyes fade, so he shuts his own and holds Michael until the paramedics come to tear Michael from his bloody hands.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> keep commenting, so far you guys have been awesome :)  
> I won't be posting anything for a day or two even though I've written a lot more bc I'm trying to space it out so I don't hit the end of what I've written and then have to write like crazy. also bc i'm a busy bee :)  
> thanks for reading, you guys are lovely. xx


	6. 2-1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> part two begins

Ashton sits with Luke in the ICU.

His head is pillowed in Luke’s lap, knees propped up, clean hands resting on his stomach. Luke leans on his elbow. Neither of them speak much.

Calum hadn’t picked up his cell, and even if he had, Ashton isn’t convinced he would still come. Luke is much more forgiving in nature. When he heard that Michael was in the hospital, he had driven himself over without a thought to the fact that Michael cut him off months ago. Ashton had somehow known he would.

He hasn’t told Luke yet what happened exactly, because he hasn’t been given a comprehensive list of the damages to Michael, and because Luke hasn’t asked. The minute Luke had stepped out of the elevator, he’d raced to Ashton to give him a bone-crushing hug. Ashton hadn’t had the strength to reciprocate, and that was okay, because it was clear Ashton was not in good shape.

They wait for someone to tell them that Michael’s stabilized. Ashton’s not eager to see him, not like this, but he is eager to know that Michael will pull through. He fucking _knew_ that he should have forced Michael to leave, no matter how much Michael would have hated him for it. He would rather Michael be angry at him than dead.

“He’ll be fine,” Luke says out of nowhere, as if sensing Ashton’s thoughts change paths.

Ashton hesitates to respond, staring at the dirty stucco ceiling. “I was right.”

“About?”

Ashton tosses up a hand and drops it back to his chest. “You know I thought someone was hitting him,” he says. “I wouldn’t shut up about it.”

Ashton can’t see Luke’s face, but he can sense the confusion when he says, “You’re not saying—?”

“I knew something was wrong, from the start, I knew,” Ashton says in a rush. “I just kept thinking that he would, like, wake up and want to leave.”

“What are we talking about?” Luke says.

Ashton shakes his head. “Oliver, it was Oliver. All along.”

“You’re not actually saying Oliver put him here?” Luke says, shifting under Ashton. “I don’t think he would do that. I don’t like him, but—but not even Oliver would be that cruel.”

“We were all blind, Luke,” Ashton tells him. “It was right in front of us. Oliver’s done some really bad things.”

“Hang on,” Luke says. “You’re serious, aren’t you? This isn’t just jealousy or something, is it?”

“Of course I’m serious,” Ashton says. “I saw him. On graduation. I asked him. Oliver had been hitting him all along, Luke. Domestic abuse, that’s what it was.”

“No,” Luke says slowly, in denial. “No, that can’t be it. Oliver wouldn’t—”

“Luke,” Ashton says tiredly, “what the _hell_ do you know about Oliver? What do any of us know about Oliver? For fuck’s sake, what do we even know about _Michael?”_

“How do you know?” Luke argues. “You just woke up and realized, or something?”

Ashton bites down on the inside of his cheek. “You really wanna know, Luke? There were burns on his hands. Cigarette burns. His dad, his mum, they don’t smoke. But we know someone who does.”

Luke is quiet for a long time.

“I wish,” he says softly, “I wish that I had tried a little harder. To stay friends. He must have thought we didn’t care. We just gave up, Calum and I did. He’d been so distant. Like he’d been pulling away for weeks.”

Ashton shakes his head. “No use in thinking about it now, is there?”

Luke shrugs, and seems lost for words.

After a while, Ashton sits up. Luke is looking at his hands, his blue eyes somber and shadowed. His teeth tug at his lower lip now and then, running back and forth as if he intends to split it right open.

“It’s not your fault, you know,” Ashton says, taking Luke’s baby-soft hand in his own. “For giving up. You’re here now, aren’t you?”

Luke nods imperceptibly. “I just think—if he, like, if something was seriously wrong, and he didn’t wake up, then he would die thinking he didn’t have any friends.”

“God, don’t say that,” Ashton says. He checks his watch. “It’s been a few hours. How long do you think it takes to stabilize him?”

“How should I know?” Luke says, and his phone buzzes. His face visibly relaxes. “Calum will be here in a few minutes. He’s on his way.”

“Oh,” Ashton says, admittedly a bit relieved as well. “I didn’t know if he would—you know.”

“It’s still Michael,” Luke says, tucking his phone away. “Even he wouldn’t be that bitter.”

“Excuse me,” someone says, approaching them. She comes to stand in front of the two of them, a clipboard in her arms. “You brought in Michael Clifford, correct?”

Ashton springs to his feet immediately, overenthusiastic. “Yes. That’s me, that was me. Is he—can I see him?”

“He’s stable,” the doctor says, cutting off his nervous rambling. “We’ve assessed his injuries and diagnosed some fracturing in his skull, several broken ribs and a punctured lung as well as other minor injuries. We’ve already put him through surgery to fix the fracturing and his lungs. He’s on a ventilator and an IV right now, and he’s still under the anæsthetic, so he may not come around for a while. You can see him now, if you like; we’ve moved him into a private room.”

“Thank you,” Ashton says, making as if to move toward the hallway; Luke is quick to get up and follow.

“Hold on,” the doctor says, pushing Ashton back a few steps. “We ask that you stay outside the room for the moment. We want to monitor him for a bit before we allow visitors in. At this point we would usually let only the family in.”

“That’s fine,” Ashton says, determined to let nothing ruin his relief. “Can we go, then?”

The doctor gives him a tense smile. “If you’re so inclined, he’ll be in room 37.”

Ashton and Luke find themselves outside Michael’s room, fingers pressed against the glass window, fog forming where their mouths and noses get too close. Ashton only has eyes for Michael.

Inside, Michael lies asleep on a small white bed, a plastic mask connected to a tube positioned over his face, obscuring part of his features. Ashton can see the swelling and bruising over his face where the mask doesn’t cover, over his exposed throat. He knows there must be more where the sheets cover him. Where one of Michael’s arms rests over the covers, Ashton sees the bandaging up and down his track-marked arm and hand, all the shredded skin. A bandage is wrapped around his head.

He’s so small and distant and motionless, and Ashton’s heart aches for him.

“Hey,” a voice says, materializing out of nowhere. It’s Calum. “I’m sorry I couldn’t come sooner. My phone was dead.”

Ashton steps away from the glass, broken from his thoughts, and Calum takes his place, pressing himself against the glass to see the boy inside.

“Oh,” he breathes, eyebrows turning up slightly in concern. “Oh.” His face scrunches up. “What happened?”

Although Luke stands next to him too, he looks at Ashton, because he _knows_ , if not from intuition, from the look on Ashton’s face. Ashton’s gaze drops.

“We’ll talk later,” Ashton says, and takes a deep breath. “He needs us now. The most important thing is that we’re here. We’re all here.”

Luke nods, and he and Calum step back too. Luke is the first to put an arm around Ashton’s waist.

“For him,” Ashton adds, nodding towards the glass. “We’re here, for him.”

Calum moves to take Ashton’s other side, and they stay like that, linked, heads bowed, while Michael sleeps on inside.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so far the comments have been awesome, please please please keep it up bc i love reading them and it makes me smile  
> basically this is the start of part two, which i haven't finished, so updates may slow down a bit. i love you all, hope you're doing fantastic xx


	7. 2-2

When Michael does wake up two days later, it’s already morning. Ashton went home for the night, but is back, now. He’s pretty sure Calum is milling around somewhere waiting for the same news, and Luke is god-knows-where, most likely the cafeteria. They all agreed to stay during the days so they could see him together.

Ashton texts them after the doctor leaves to continue her other responsibilities, letting them know that they can visit him. He feels mostly okay, surprisingly, if a bit jittery. It will be hard to see Michael in this condition, he knows, but his primary concern is that Michael feels loved, and that he doesn’t have to feel alone again.

Calum comes first, then Luke a few minutes after, bouncing on the balls of their feet. Ashton can sense the nervous energy among the three of them.

“Let’s go,” Calum says anxiously. “God, I haven’t seen him in ages.”

Luke agrees and Ashton twists the hem of his t-shirt. He saw Michael last night, even fleetingly and through the pain, but he doesn’t know if that can be really counted as seeing him. Ashton has a feeling none of them are really prepared for what they might see inside.

They make their way down the halls to Michael’s room. They can see him inside, slightly propped up on his bed. His hair is scraggly and faded, slightly depressed in a bandage shape. An oxygen tube runs beneath his nose, the IV still laced into his wrist. His head is tilted down, staring at his scabbed-over hands, shoulders delicate and small beneath his thin hospital gown.

“Well,” Ashton says, taking a breath, “there he is.”

“Yeah,” Luke says, putting his hand on the doorknob. “On three?”

The other boys nod and Luke counts off. When he hits one, he turns the knob tentatively and pushes the door inwards.

Michael’s head snaps up at the noise and he shifts suddenly, looking at them with startled eyes. They don’t advance very far, afraid to scare him. It’s clear he’s still not doing well, because his breathing is painfully uneven and he looks exhausted.

“Hey there,” Calum says, taking the lead and striding to Michael’s bedside, sitting in the chair provided. “Doing alright?”

Michael involuntarily leans back slightly, as if to distance himself. His fingers tighten on the sheets. “Fine,” he mumbles, keeping his eyes focused elsewhere.

“I’m glad to see you,” Calum says kindly. “You know I haven’t seen you for a while.”

“Sorry,” Michael mumbles. “’M sorry.”

Calum glances back at Ashton hesitantly, who nods.

“No, it’s fine,” Calum says. “Anyways. You still have me when you need me. Get better, alright?”

Michael nods, still quiet. Ashton needs Michael to display some life; he needs to see that a small part of him, however difficult to see, still remains.

Luke rushes forward to join Calum, going as far as to climb up next to Michael and nestle next to him, which Ashton isn’t entirely sure is allowed, but, you know, whatever. Michael shies away slightly, playing with the hospital ID tag braceleting his wrist.

“I’ve missed you _so_ much,” Luke says earnestly, and Michael smiles fleetingly. “I had nobody to game with. Calum is a _bitch_ when he loses.”

“Oh, please, I never lose,” Calum scoffs, and the tension begins to lift even as Luke gives him a dark look.

“Sore loser,” Ashton agrees from where he stands. He realizes his friends have abandoned him to watch from a distance, but he stays rooted, feeling he should allow Calum and Luke to reacquaint themselves with Michael. Someday, maybe years from now, he hopes things will have returned to normal—whatever normal will be redefined as.

“I knew you’d take his side,” Calum sniffs. “Everyone always takes Luke’s side.”

“Jealous?”

“Shut the fuck up, Luke. You’re gangly and awkward and terrible at footy,” Calum bites back, and Luke rolls his eyes and pulls closer to Michael.

“I think you’re great,” Ashton hears Michael mumble softly, and Luke positively beams.

“Does nobody love me anymore?” Calum laments.

Ashton watches their conversation unfold for about twenty minutes before the nurse pops her head in to remind them that Michael’s allowed visiting time ends in ten minutes. They all forgot somehow that he’s still fragile and needs time to heal, that he’s different now.

“Can we have some time alone?” Ashton asks, nodding towards Michael.

Calum and Luke peel themselves off his side without question and pat him on the shoulder as they go.

Ashton feels the air thicken as he approaches Michael, and he takes a seat next to Michael’s bed in the chair Calum vacated. Michael reacts similarly, angling his head away.

“Hey,” Ashton says, reaching up to take Michael’s hand. “You doing alright?”

Michael nods unconvincingly, the light from the window falling across his discolored face. Ashton aches to hold him, but Michael’s too distant emotionally.

“Thanks,” Michael whispers unexpectedly. He sucks in a heavy breath, straightening for a moment before slumping back down. “I didn’t think you’d c- _come_.”

Ashton is taken aback by the tears flooding his eyes. He’s been so calm, quiet, that Ashton thought he might not even have fully returned to them yet. After days of being knocked out on various sedatives and anæsthetics, he quite expected Michael to be reticent for a bit.

“Why wouldn’t I come?” Ashton says, squeezing his hand.

“I fucked up,” Michael whispers. “I thought I could handle myself, I didn’t want to be a burden, and—and—”

Michael’s words stumble to a stop and he turns his face quickly. “I didn’t think you would care after everything.”

Before he can stop himself, Ashton is clambering up next to Michael, squeezing in where Luke left an absence. He guides Michael’s face back in view with a few gentle fingers, and Michael stares with deliberately wide eyes at his hands in his lap, ignoring the tears that fall on his fingers.

“I will always care,” Ashton says firmly. “Always. Whatever was said—neither of us were thinking straight. None of this is your fault, Michael. You understand that, don’t you?”

Michael breathes out with a shudder. “I’m so sorry.”

Ashton exhales heavily. “Don’t. I’m just—I’m so happy you’re safe. I’m glad you got out of there.”

“I don’t—” Michael starts, but gets cut off by the nurse, who has come to shoo Ashton out.

“Time to go,” she says, and Ashton goes for a kiss to the cheek. Michael leans away, and Ashton understands.

“I don’t know what to do,” Michael finishes desperately, grasping at Ashton’s arm when he stands to go. “Are you going to come back tomorrow?”

“Everyday,” Ashton promises. “Heal up quick.”

Outside the room, Ashton worries more about Michael than before.

 

* * *

 

A few days later, Ashton walks with Calum on the busy streets surrounding the hospital, having just come out of visiting hours. Luke went home right after, citing some previous commitment with his family, leaving the two other boys alone. They hadn’t meant to end up meandering about the streets of Sydney, but somehow, here they are.

Their conversation is oddly hushed, when the whole city is roaring around them, and they talk about mundane things; Calum prepping for a college footy career, family matters, even the weather, and so Ashton is a little taken aback when Calum asks, seemingly out of nowhere, “What’s wrong with Michael?”

Ashton doesn’t respond immediately. When he does, he starts listing off Michael’s injuries: “Some broken ribs, a—”

“I know,” Calum cuts Ashton off. “I mean, like—what happened?”

Ashton feels his throat tighten. “Oh.”

Calum heaves a deep breath. “Is it—because he’s always beaten up?” Ashton nods slowly, feeling his hands rapidly grow cool in his pockets. “It was Oliver, wasn’t it,” Calum says, his head bowing. His eyes are shadowed and dull. It’s hardly even a question.

“I kept trying to tell you.” It doesn’t sound like an _I told you so_ , but it hurts nonetheless, it stings because it’s true and if someone had listened to Ashton then maybe they wouldn’t be here at all. “That’s why—that’s why he cut himself off.”

“How long have you known?”

“Your graduation.”

“And you didn’t tell me?” Calum is quiet, despairing.

“It wasn’t for me to tell,” Ashton replies.

Calum stops walking, throwing his head back and cursing. “Son of a bitch. I should never have let this happen. I knew Oliver was sketchy. Why didn’t I do anything?”

“‘S not your fault. We all turned the other way.”

“You were right, and we didn’t listen. I hate that. You had it right all along. God, to think that someone hurt Michael like that—”

“We see what we want to see,” Ashton says softly. “Sometimes it can be too painful to admit.”

“Right.” Calum shakes his head, angry. “He’s so—broken, I guess. Or something. I’ve never seen him like this. He’s supposed to be loud, and funny, and—alive, not like this. Lord.”

“He is alive,” Ashton insists. “Therefore he will live through this. All he needs is for us to be there for him. For someone to really, truly love him, and patch him up.”

“What if Oliver tries to take him away? He’ll crawl right back.”

“We just have to keep him safe,” Ashton says, cringing at the thought.They come up on the parking lot. “I should go home. I’ll see you back here tomorrow, yeah?”

Calum nods, and Ashton climbs in his car and leaves him standing out on the street wringing his hands.

 

* * *

 

“Do my parents know I’m here?” Michael asks one day, practically the second the boys get in. He hasn’t asked about them at all, and Ashton wonders what triggered it.

“I don’t know,” Ashton says honestly. “They’re vacationing in Europe for a few more weeks, so none of us could reach them. You’re 18, anyway.”

“Oh,” Michael says, barely audible. It’s difficult to tell whether he is disappointed or not.

“I’m sure they would come if they could,” Calum says, always quick to bolster Michael’s spirit. “C’mon, wanna play Pokemon or something? Luke and I brought our Nintendos.”

“Mine is at home,” Michael says, brushing them off.

“‘S alright, you can use mine,” Luke offers eagerly. Michael wordlessly accepts it, but there seems to be more on his mind. Not for the first time, Ashton feels inadequate. He can’t bring Michael’s parents home. Michael is starting to heal, his skin is knitting back together and the scabs over his hands, his elbows, are starting to fall off like the bits of gravel they had to remove. But Ashton knows that every day is still painful for Michael to live through.

“Ah, fuck, I got Piplup,” Calum complains. “Son of a bitch.”

Michael will regain himself. Ashton has some faith. Right now, he’s a fragile shell of himself. If he hadn’t seen Michael fade all these months, he wouldn’t trust his eyes.

Michael leans his head on Luke’s shoulder, eyes falling half shut. The Nintendo slides from his limp fingers. Luke’s forehead creases in concern. “You okay?”

“I don’t want to play,” Michael says almost plaintively. His eyes close and he looks like he might cry. “I want my mum.”

They all fall silent, and in the void, Michael curls into Luke’s side and starts to cry. Luke wraps an uncertain arm around his shoulders, giving Ashton and Calum pleading looks. In all the time he’s been here, they haven’t seen him cry. The first time they visited, Michael had cried when he and Ashton were alone, but it was nothing like this. It was gentle and overwhelmed, and this is uncontrollable and convulses his whole body. He’s trembling and clawing at Luke’s shoulder, rigid all over.

“She’ll be back soon,” Luke says, his voice quaking. “P-promise.”

“We don’t have to play,” Calum says weakly. “Do you—do you want us to go?”

Michael nods, but clings onto Luke like he’s a lifeline. “You can even keep Luke,” Ashton says, earning an apprehensive look from the party in question. “We’ll visit tomorrow, yeah?”

Luke strokes Michael’s hair down as Michael whispers, _I want my mum, I want my mum, I want my mum_ over and over again and mumbles over it, “It’s all okay, it’s going to be okay.”

Everything, they all know, is far from okay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> please keep up the comments bc they make me so happy honestly and i'm writing as fast as i can for you guys so i can keep updating <3  
> this chapter makes me so sad bc michael's so sad sigh  
> um um um is that all i have to say? i think so. i'm still figuring out ao3 bc i wrote on wattpad for a few years and this is only my second story here but if there's a way to message me or something feel free, otherwise i'm on twitter at @desperateashton and tumblr at @theflatsoundofmusic at least rn. love you guys, please comment and i'll marry u  
> xx


	8. 2-3

Ashton visits half a week later in the morning. They let him into the room with no warning of what’s inside, and so Ashton’s floored with the image.

Michael lies on his back in the bed, lower arms rebandaged in stained gauze, eyes heavy-lidded and drooping. He’s back in the hospital gown they allowed him to discard a while back and he looks so disoriented Ashton is afraid.

“What happened?” Ashton breathes, paralyzed by the doorway.

The nurse says quietly, “He was up all night scratching his arms. We had to sedate him. We’re debating moving him into the psych ward.”

“No,” Ashton says too fast, the word punched right out of him. “No. Please. Don’t—he’ll be better soon. He’ll be better when he’s home.”

“We’re not sure sending him home is the best option right now.”

“No, you don’t understand—he’s lonely. He’s fragile, that’s all. He’s been fine up until now. Just give me a little time, I can fix it,” Ashton begs.

The nurse’s mouth sets into a hard line. “I’m afraid this decision isn’t up to you.”

Ashton heaves a shaky breath. “Yeah. No, I understand.”

He approaches Michael’s bedside, letting the nurse close the door behind him. He sits on the edge, he waits for Michael to cringe away as he always does. He waits for Michael to tell him not to sit so close, because for a few weeks now he hasn’t wanted to be touched by anyone except Luke, and Luke’s the only one smaller and less muscular than him and Ashton understands because of the three of them Luke is the farthest from resembling Oliver. Yeah, he understands. He understands a lot of things, like the way Michael doesn’t like when Ashton cards his hands through his hair anymore, and the way he doesn’t like when they bring up college and family and _how things used to be_ and maybe Ashton does understand, maybe he really does, but it doesn’t mean it doesn’t still hurt like hell.

Today, Michael doesn’t even realize Ashton is here.

He looks like he might be awake and just drowsy, but he blinks infrequently and breathes so silently sometimes Ashton isn’t sure he’s even alive, and he’s vacant and buzzed on whatever sedative they gave him.

“Hey, buddy,” Ashton says, taking a hand in his own. “You in there?”

Michael makes the tiniest of sounds, and Ashton hopes he’s not imagining it.

“You’re probably too tired to talk,” Ashton continues shakily. “I don’t know why you went and scratched up your arms like this. I really don’t, but then I do, because I know everything hurts and you won’t tell me. You don’t tell me much at all, and you don’t like being touched, and I’m lost. But it’ll be better when you’re out of here. Just try to keep it together so you can go home—wherever that is for you. And maybe, when you wake up, you could tell me what happened last night, and we can persuade them not to take you to psych ward. It’ll be okay, you see? I would never lie to you.”

Ashton glances at the door to make sure nobody is there, and when all he sees is white walls, he crawls up onto the bed and slips his arm around Michael’s shoulders, pulling so Michael is cradled in his arms. Michael is small, thin, so much more delicate than he had been when the year began. Michael could hold his own in bed, in a fight; Michael could take Ashton even when Ashton wanted things rough. Ashton has never been more afraid to touch him. He cannot imagine this is the same boy he used to pin to the mattress. Everything has slipped out of reach and Ashton feels like the world is spinning when he sees Michael, and he imagines that’s how it must feel for Michael too, like collapsing through the roof of a house.

“I don’t know if you’re listening, Michael,” Ashton says desperately, “but if you are, then—do you remember when you asked if I loved you? The answer is yes. I love you as much as anyone is allowed to love someone they sleep with, but more, so much more than I should ever have allowed myself. And I don’t want you to love me back. I don’t need you to love me back. But I need you to know that there are still people who love you. Not the kind of bullshit love you believed you were being given, not the kind of love you thought you deserved. Real love. That’s what you deserve—that’s why you have to promise that you’ll just hold on until I can get you out of here and keep you safe. Okay?”

Ashton kisses the top of Michael’s peroxide blond head; he can remember a time when Michael would dye his hair every month, and it must have made him feel alive, because when he faded, so did his hair. Ashton misses those days, _God_ does he miss those days, and honestly, who can blame him?

He shuts his eyes and prays that Michael will be okay, but his heart isn’t really in it, because he’s done a hell of a lot of praying for months on end and if he’s still sitting here cradling a broken boy in a hospital bed, then God has probably stopped listening.

 

* * *

 

Ashton returns the next morning alone again, skipping school so he can be with Michael. They haven’t moved him into psych yet, so Ashton counts it as a blessing. Today, Michael is awake and sitting up when he gets in.

“Feeling better?”Ashton says, sitting by the bed.

Michael raises his eyes briefly to Ashton’s, then drops his gaze back to his fingers. The bandages are tinted brown along the inside of his arm. “I guess,” he says, nearly inaudible.

“I came to visit yesterday,” Ashton says. “You were knocked straight out.” Michael is silent, so he continues. “They told me what happened. What you did.”

“I know,” Michael whispers. “I heard you. Some of what you said. I don’t remember most of it.”

Ashton nods. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“Are they sending me to psych?” Michael blurts out, and then flushes bright red.

“Michael—”

“They said. They think I’m crazy. You have to tell them I should go home.”

“I did,” Ashton says. “It’s not up to me. And even if it was, I don’t know that this won’t happen again.”

“It won’t,” Michael snaps.

“How do you know? Michael, you’re not okay.”

“I was _afraid_ ,” Michael says, fists balling. “I’m not crazy.”

“Afraid of what?” Ashton presses tiredly.

Michael bites down hard on his lip, leaving it red and dark. “They won’t—” he stutters. “They won’t let me leave the lights on, they won’t let me lock the door, none of you had visited for _days_ , and I thought—I don’t know, okay?”

“You thought we forgot about you,” Ashton says softly.

“I don’t feel safe,” Michael chokes out. “When—you guys are here, I know he won’t come back. And then you leave and I start thinking so hard I can’t sleep. And I just freaked out. I’m not crazy.”

Ashton exhales heavily. “I know you’re not crazy. I’m trying to get you out of here. Have you told them that you don’t feel safe? Maybe they’ll understand.”

“You’ll take me home soon?” Michael asks, his pale eyes hopeful and pleading.

“Yeah,” Ashton promises. “Soon as I can. Think you’ll be all healed up soon.”

Michael sighs unhappily. “I want to go home now. I’m not broken.”

“I know you’re not. Just hold on for a little longer, and I’ll get you out of here, okay?”

Michael is silent for a while, and Ashton tries to think of something to say. Michael won’t stop biting his lip, and finally he says, “Where am I going to go?”

“Hmm?”

“Like, after. When I get out,” Michael clarifies, and shifts. “When I go home. I don’t have a home now.”

“What about your parents?”

“Out of town, remember,” Michael says. His eyes droop a little. “I don’t think they’ll want me back.”

“Why not, baby?”

“Because we were fighting when I left,” Michael mumbles. “They didn’t want me to move in with him. They said if I did, they wouldn’t—they didn’t want to see me again. They wouldn’t send me money, they wouldn’t call and ask me to come back. And I can’t go back to Oliver’s. I don’t have anywhere.” Michael’s eyes well up with sudden tears, and Ashton hurts. “I don’t have anywhere to go.”

“They’ll take you back, Michael, I promise.”

“And if they don’t?”

“Then I’ll take you,” Ashton says automatically. “You can stay with me.”

“Why would you want me?” Michael says, and he sounds tired and small and confused. “After all this, why would you want me?”

“Because I love you,” Ashton says. “And no matter what you’ve been through, I always will. I just want to make you feel safe, Michael. I just want to make you feel loved.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (please keep commenting i love hearing from you guys)  
> my birthday is tomorrow! but i have hella summer hw :(  
> anyways, here ya go. xx


	9. 2-4

The day of Michael’s release is a huge relief for everyone. It’s to show everyone, Michael most of all, that the world moves on, that there is hope among despair. Anybody who saw Michael the night he crashed through Ashton’s door would have choked to see him walk out of the hospital, nearly unmarred and shouldered by three friends. By all accounts, Michael, as battered as he was, would not have been here if he hadn’t gotten to Ashton.

The fight isn’t over.

Michael is fragile. His skin is rice-paper delicate, thin and pale; his bones are glass filled with bleeding cherry blossoms. The steadiness of his gait betrays the frailty within. Ashton walks Michael to his car and opens the door for him. Michael slides into the passenger seat and Ashton reaches in to buckle Michael’s seatbelt, but Michael swats his hand away. “I can buckle myself. I’m not dying.”

But Ashton somehow feels he is.

“This is it,” he says, smiling reassuringly. “We can go home now.”

“Home,” Michael echoes. His brow furrows. Ashton knows he doesn’t call anywhere home right now, because every home he’s lived in has felt empty until now. But Ashton will make him a home if he has to build it up from the ruins of Michael’s shredded heart.

When they get to Ashton’s apartment, Michael seems almost dazed as they walk through the door. Considering he’s spent most of this month in a hospital, Ashton isn’t surprised. To come “home”, to be somewhere safe and familiar, is something he hasn’t seen in a while.

“You can stay in my room if you want,” Ashton says, breaking the silence. “I’ll just sleep on the couch.”

“No,” Michael says, fidgeting. “You can sleep in your room. I’ll sleep on the couch. It’s your apartment.”

“You just got out of the hospital. I’m not letting you sleep on the couch.”

“I can’t take your bed,” Michael says, shrinking. His eyes start to swim with worry again, and Ashton realizes that to him, this is an argument. “Please.”

“Hey, hey,” Ashton says, trying to calm him down. “The bed’s big enough for both of us. Or you can sleep on the couch and I’ll sleep on the floor next to you. It’s okay. Do you wanna try sleeping on the bed together tonight, or is that too much?”

“Couch,” Michael mumbles, eyes flitting up and down. He’s still afraid that Ashton will be upset.

“We’ll get you some clothes tomorrow,” Ashton says, “and whatever else you need. There are extra toothbrushes in the cupboard and you can wear any of my clothes. Do you want some tea, or something?”

Michael nods mutely, going to sit on the couch in the living room. Ashton goes to the kitchen and puts some water on the stove to boil.

He doesn’t know what living with Michael will be like. For one, Michael’s stuff is all at Oliver’s place, so they’re going to need replace everything Michael needs. And surely there’s damage they can’t see. Michael will require plenty of care, the nuances of which Ashton hasn’t worked out yet. He doesn’t even know what kind of abuse Michael has sustained.

He pours the water into a cup and drops in a tea bag. He watches as the dark tea floods the clear water in swirls. He pours some sugar in and stirs it all slowly. The tea mixes, whirling around until the color is consistent. He picks up the mug and goes back to the living room to hand it to Michael.

“Here you go.” Michael accepts it, curling his legs up on the couch. “Is there anything you need?”

Michael shakes his head. “Where am I allowed to go in the house?”

Ashton frowns, thrown off by the question. “Anywhere. Why wouldn’t—”

He cuts off, looking at how Michael watches him with his body turned away. There’s a lot of body language Ashton has to learn to recognize—and he’s pretty sure this is fear again.

“Anywhere?” Michael repeats, uncertain.

“You can go anywhere,” Ashton says firmly. “This is your home too, now.”

“My home?”

“As much as it’s mine. I want you to feel like you’re safe.”

“Home,” Michael echoes. Unexpectedly, he smiles down at his hands. “Will I be happy here?”

Ashton blinks quickly, swallowing hard. “Yeah, Michael. Think you’ll be really happy here.”

 

* * *

 

In the morning, Ashton lets Michael sleep in while he gets ready for work. Michael looks almost at peace when he’s asleep curled up tightly on the couch, and Ashton much prefers that to the constant worrying.

Michael finally wanders into the kitchen when Ashton’s just finishing his coffee. “Morning, sleeping beauty. You sleep okay last night?”

“Mmhm,” Michael says, looking lost. His eyelids are drooping still.

“Well, I have to get to work. I’m sorry I didn’t warn you earlier. Will you be okay on your own?”

Michael’s eyes widen. “You’re leaving me on my own? Will you come back?”

“Of course,” Ashton says, mildly concerned. “I’ll be home at 7, on the dot. Are you sure you’ll be alright? I could call in sick, if you need.”

Michael shakes his head obstinately. “I’ll be okay.”

“My cell and work number are posted on the fridge if you need anything, no matter how small. Stay safe while I’m gone, okay? I’ll take you to get things tonight.”

“Promise you’ll come back?”

“Michael, babe,” Ashton sighs, taking Michael’s hands in his own. They’re cold and small, spidery thin. “I’m not leaving you. I promise. I would never do that. I’m going to be here until you hate me.”

“Could never hate you,” Michael mumbles.

“Well, I guess we’ll see. Now, I know you can do this, but just say the word and I call in sick.”

“It’s fine,” Michael says. “I promise.” He doesn’t look Ashton in the eye, but Ashton thinks it’s okay. He thinks Michael will be okay.

“Listen, I know everything is scary and new right now,” he says in a low voice, “but everything’s going to get better.”

“Have fun at work,” Michael says, avoiding his eyes still.

Ashton grabs his keys off the corner. “See you tonight, Michael. Be safe for me.”

 

* * *

 

Ashton makes sure to get home right when he said he would, just because Michael’s been home all day alone and he knows Michael needs stability. He’s almost over eager when he jams the key in the lock; Michael’s been on his mind all day. Maybe he can make them dinner, give Michael a taste of what being domestic really feels like. He can take Michael for clothes and necessities tonight, he can tuck him in bed and cover him in blankets, he can—

Oh.

Michael kneels on the floor, one hand working over the tile with a rag and the other braced against the ground. His eyes are wide in his face, glassy and determined. Ashton cringes when he glances down at Michael’s hands.

“Michael, baby,” he says gently, dropping to his knees next to Michael. “What’s this?”

Michael lets out a soft gasp when Ashton lifts his right hand, prying the soaked rag from it. “I was—c-cleaning.”

“Look at your hands,” Ashton says, his breath catching as he tosses the rag in the sink. “They’re bleeding, Michael.”

“No, it’s—it’s fine.”

“It’s not fine.” Ashton lifts Michael up, supporting most of his weight. Michael’s biting on his lip now and it looks like he’s going to cry, and Ashton doesn’t understand and doesn’t want to. “We should get this stuff off your hands.”

He pulls Michael to the bathroom and sits him on the toilet lid, extending his hands out over the sink and turning on the faucet. Michael lets out a little pained cry when the hot water hits his hands. A tear leaks from his watery green eye. “I just wanted everything to be clean for you.”

Ashton lets out a shuddery breath. “Oh, Michael, you don’t have to.”

“Oliver always liked things clean,” Michael whispers.

Ashton shakes his head, watching the traces of blood swirl down the drain. “You’re supposed to wear gloves when you clean with stuff like that, baby.”

“Gloves?”

“It’s got ammonia in it. It’ll tear up your hands.”

“Oliver didn’t let me wear gloves,” Michael whispers.

Ashton hisses at that. “Oliver was a sick son of a bitch, Michael. And I won’t have you ruining your hands, okay? You don’t ever have to clean like that. That’s just sick.”

Michael stays silent as Ashton pours disinfectant over his raw hands, although he winces, and lets Ashton wipe his tears away with a tissue.

“Do you still want to go shopping?” Ashton asks, looking down at Michael wearing his baggy clothes.

“Okay,” Michael says shakily.

“It’s alright if you don’t want to. I’m going to wrap your hands up so they don’t hurt, okay?”

“Okay.”

Michael waits patiently while Ashton takes out the gauze and begins swathing his shredded hands in it. “Did he always make you clean like this?”

“He liked it,” Michael repeats, sounding stunned.

“Well,” Ashton says, tying the last bit of gauze off, “I don’t like it.” He kisses each of his hands. “If you want to clean something, do it with gloves. Take it easy though, okay? You’re still recovering.”

Michael nods, sniffing back the last tears. “Okay.” He still sounds small and unsure.

“Now, do you wanna go get some clothes? Mine are too big for you, I think. And you’re gonna need a toothbrush and stuff, too.”

“Okay,” Michael says again.

“We can go anywhere you want,” Ashton offers. “Where do you like to go?”

“I don’t know.”

“Before. This time last year, where did you go for clothes?”

Michael seems genuinely flustered. Ashton wonders if it’s too far for him to remember, if being with Oliver was so big that it wiped away his past. “I—don’t know.”

“Let’s just go to the mall,” Ashton suggests. “We can visit a few places. See what you like.”

Michael nods, clutching his newly bandaged hands close to his body. “’Kay.”

If Michael didn’t own absolutely nothing, Ashton wouldn’t push so hard to go tonight. It’s clear there is a lot to work out here. But it stands that Michael has nothing, not even the clothes he went into the hospital with due to the fact that they were too ripped up and bloody to be worth keeping.

So Ashton ends up taking a timid Michael into the mall. Michael is small and easily frightened, and Ashton is careful to keep him close. Michael looks nearly as dazed when he glances around at the crowds as he did coming home yesterday. His hands are limp by his sides, and Ashton worries they’ll bump against someone.

He takes Michael to one of the toiletry places to get a toothbrush and various soaps. Michael is hesitant to smell them at Ashton’s suggestion, as if he thinks it’s a trick. He picks out a bar at last, and a few bottles of hair product. Ashton isn’t sure if he really likes them or if he just doesn’t know what to do. Ashton asks if he wants hair dye. He shakes his head, and Ashton decides not to push.

They visit several stores, and Michael amasses a few pairs of the tightest skinny jeans they can find (although they still pool around his thin thighs, and Ashton worries) and a new hoodie and pair of Converse that were on sale (not that Ashton wouldn’t have bought them at full price, because Michael’s in dire need of clothes). At this point, Ashton points out that he probably needs some shirts and asks if he wants to go to Hot Topic.

Michael shakes his head. Ashton frowns. “Michael, come on. We can get you a new Green Day shirt, or Blink—”

“It’s fine,” Michael says. “Band merch is expensive.”

So that’s his reason. “Well, you know what? You need clothes. Let’s look. If you still decide you don’t want any, we can go home. Alright?”

Michael allows Ashton to guide him into the dim Hot Topic store. The band merch is all the way at the back. They spend a few minutes looking up at the big wall. Michael experimentally pulls some shirts from the shelves, looking at various band shirts. They have all his favorites, and Ashton knows Michael feels most at home wearing the bands closest to his heart.

But Michael puts them all back and shakes his head, refusing to meet Ashton’s eyes. Ashton doesn’t want to push him too hard, because they’re just getting started and he needs to ease Michael into normal life.

Ashton drives him home and doesn’t argue when Michael wants to sleep on the couch again. He sleeps on the floor next to him like he did last night, even though the apartment floor is hard and makes him stiff by the mornings. He’ll be patient.

In time, things will improve.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry it's been so long since I updated! i had my birthday and a violin gig and homework and it slipped my mind to update.  
> thank you for your birthday wishes!  
> let me know what you think so far. i love you all and take care of yourselves xx


	10. 2-5

Of course, Ashton has no idea what he’s really dealing with until a few days later. The true depth of Oliver’s impact on Michael hasn’t hit him before then; it’s not until Michael has his first major meltdown that Ashton begins to comprehend the damage that he will have to undo.

It’s a Thursday and Ashton’s been paid a day early, and all he can think of when he leaves work is that he wants to use it to get Michael some shirts. He can’t stand seeing Michael wandering around the apartment swimming in Ashton’s t-shirts. Not only is it a little heartbreaking to see his frail arms poking out from the oversized sleeves, but Ashton’s never really been on top of the whole laundry thing, and he’s tired of both of them having to re-wear shirts.

So he goes back to Hot Topic and grabs some of the shirts he thinks Michael will like. He gets excited, too, thinking about how happy Michael will be. After all, band shirts used to be all he would wear. It’s half past seven when he leaves Hot Topic, and a quarter to eight when he finally pulls into the parking lot of the apartment complex.

He climbs the stairs with a spring in his step, his work bag slung over his shoulder with the t-shirts stuffed inside. He always gets excited before he sees Michael; he likes coming home to him and finding him curled up on the couch watching TV or listening to the CDs Ashton keeps stashed with his DVDs.

Today, he doesn’t find Michael doing any of these things.

The apartment is silent when he walks through the door. Ashton isn’t immediately alarmed; sometimes when he walks in, Michael has fallen asleep on the couch prematurely, or else he’s run out of things to do and is simply sitting somewhere and thinking. Usually, Ashton will make dinner for both of them a while after he comes home.

But he’s not on the couch, he’s not in the bedroom, and Ashton’s running out of places to check, and if he’s not in the bathroom, then Ashton doesn’t know where he could possibly be.

Ashton reaches the bathroom. The door is closed, but when Ashton tries the handle, it’s not locked.

The bathroom, with its poor ventilation and all, smells like alcohol, and Ashton registers that before he registers the sight of Michael sitting against the wall surrounded by bottles. And Michael, he’s shaking, and his face is damp and his eyes are bloodshot.

“Oh my god,” Ashton says, lurching forward. He yanks the bottle out of Michael’s hand. “Michael, what’s this?”

Michael looks up at Ashton with dizzy eyes. “Ashton,” he slurs. Light leaks into his alcohol-dulled eyes and his mouth parts. With the proximity, Ashton can smell the booze on his breath. “You came home.”

Ashton’s head spins. “How much did you drink, Michael?” He fumbles at the bottles. A bottle of vodka nearly empty, beer, some cheap liquor Ashton took home from someone’s party a long time ago.

“Not, not all,” Michael stumbles, making grabby hands at the bottles. “I—give it back.”

“You’ve had enough,” Ashton says, sliding them out of reach. He’s out of his depth. He can barely keep his own hands steady.

Michael’s eyes fill with tears again. “You came back,” he repeats, plaintive and small. “Thought you weren’t coming back.”

Dumbfounded, Ashton pauses. “What?”

“Thought you weren’t coming back,” Michael says again. He grabs at the front of Ashton’s shirt and uses the leverage to pull himself forward so he can cling to Ashton. His breath is hot against Ashton’s chest. “Don’ leave, Ash.”

Ashton wants to cry. “You thought I wasn’t going to come back?”

Michael doesn’t respond, and starts sobbing anew into Ashton’s shirt, partly out of relief, he thinks, and partly because he’s so drunk that nothing makes sense. “I’m so much trouble.”

“No, you’re not—”

“You didn’t come home.” Michael curls into Ashton’s front, his knees resting against Ashton’s arm and his fingers latched onto Ashton’s t-shirt. “You—you always come home at seven.”

“Oh, god,” Ashton says, covering his mouth with his hand. “I didn’t know.”

“You came back,” Michael says, tugging his shirt down. He lets out an agonized breath, eyes scrunching up and sinking lower. “I’m not worth it. Did I do something wrong?”

“Oh my god, baby, you didn’t do anything wrong. I was just getting you something, I didn’t know you needed me.” Ashton hooks his arms under Michael’s and hauls him up. Michael is limp and incapable of functioning independently, so Ashton laboriously begins pulling him down the hallway to the bedroom. “Don’t cry, Michael, I’m home now.”

“Then no leaving?” Michael says hopefully, his voice hoarse. He won’t let go of Ashton’s shirt; Ashton doesn’t try to pry him off.

“No leaving,” Ashton whispers. “You are worth it, Michael. I promise.”

 

* * *

 

It’s the first night Ashton has been able to convince Michael to sleep in a real bed; he feels somewhat guilty about it, seeing as Michael was too intoxicated to know. All Ashton knows is that he doesn’t want Michael sleeping on that shitty couch. And as much as his back protests, he resumes his spot next to Michael on the floor, suspecting somehow if Michael were to wake up, he would be upset.

He doesn’t get more than a few hours of bruised sleep before Michael tumbles out of bed sometime in the early morning, the stars still dotting the sky beyond the glass windowpane. Ashton isn’t immediately alert; he nearly falls back asleep before he remembers himself with a jolt. Then he’s racing to get to Michael.

By the time he reaches him, he’s already hugging the toilet, vomiting violently. Ashton has to pause at the doorway, swaying at the sight and the feeling that the scene before him is reminiscent of a similar scene months ago. He couldn’t have known what was to come.

Ashton kneels beside Michael and rubs his back. When Michael has finally purged all the alcohol, he draws back, shaking, and leans against the tile wall with a dry sob.

“I’m sorry,” Michael sobs out. His hair sticks to his forehead, and his skin is clammy to the touch. “I messed up again.”

“Sh. It’s alright, Michael. Just breathe for me.”

Michael curls up tightly. Ashton struggles to stroke back the damp hair from his face, feeling Michael cringe away at every opportunity. Eventually, Ashton drops his hand completely.

“Do you want some water?” he whispers. Michael shakes his head inconsolably. “Then you should wash your mouth out and brush your teeth. Don’t want to ruin your teeth.”

Michael allows Ashton to pull him up. Michael takes his toothbrush and starts to clean his teeth, his shaky hand running the toothbrush in sloppy strokes over his teeth. His mouth hangs slightly open, his eyes bloodshot and watery; Ashton takes pity and takes the toothbrush himself, bracing Michael’s head with his free hand and brushing his teeth for him.

“Go back to bed, baby,” Ashton says softly. “I’ll be there in a second.”

Michael stumbles back to bed. Ashton puts away the toothbrush and sighs, leaning over the sink. This is more than he bargained for. He’s still determined to fix Michael; there is nothing he would not do. And if it takes a thousand meltdowns, so be it.

Ashton goes back to his spot on the floor. The ground is hard and digs into his shoulder blades even through the blankets he put down.

“Ashton,” a timid whisper comes.

“Michael?”

“You—you don’t h-have to sleep on the ground.”

Ashton sits up, squinting through the dark at Michael, who also sits up, sheets balled up under his white knuckles. “Hey, I don’t mind. It’s not so bad.” Of course, Ashton’s back may break soon, but whatever.

“I don’t mind.” After a moment, Michael adds with a tremor in his voice, “I trust you.”

Ashton could scream in relief. Such a small token of light from Michael, but it means everything. He knows it doesn’t erase fear, but anything is progress.

Ashton climbs into bed beside Michael, making sure to keep his distance. Michael’s eyes are pale and luminous in the moonlight, his translucent skin bleeding into the white sheets and pillows. Ashton can’t remember if he always looked so sickly.

“Sometimes he didn’t come home,” Michael whispers, surprising Ashton. “For days.”

Ashton’s stomach churns. He can hardly breathe. No wonder Michael was so worried. After Ashton’s been so careful to come home on time, Michael must have thought he wasn’t coming home at all.

“I just got you some shirts,” Ashton whispers back, feeling inadequate. “I’m not going to leave you. I didn’t know, and I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine,” Michael says with a sigh, yawning sleepily. “Night.”

Ashton mumbles a goodnight and turns over, trying to wrap his head around this new piece of information. His mind returns to the few times Michael called him—had Oliver left him alone?

Ashton starts to drift off when he feels a cold, hesitant hand find its way into his own.

Ashton can’t begin to understand how badly he wants to Michael to feel loved.

 

* * *

 

In the morning, Ashton wakes Michael up early, eliciting sleepy whimpers and nervous eyes.

Ashton can’t stand to leave Michael alone now; Luke’s classes are mostly online, and Luke loves Michael more than anything. At least somebody will be with him.

Luke doesn’t know, of course. It’s not like he’s had much time to plan it. He pretty much came up with it this morning when he woke up.

It’s understandable, in that case, that Luke meets them at the door with a string of profanity and a dramatic collapse to his knees. When he notices Michael literally hiding behind Ashton, he decides to stop complaining and actually smile.

“If it isn’t my favorite peroxide child. What’s the occasion?”

Ashton draws Michael out from behind him. “Go on, Mike. I need to talk to Luke.”

“Uh, TV and video games are in the living room,” Luke tells Michael, stepping aside. Michael hesitantly slips past him and disappears into the house with a longing glance back. “So what’s going on here? Am I adopting Michael?”

Ashton rubs his eyes. “I don’t want to leave him alone. Yesterday I came home late and he had a meltdown. I need to work something out, but can you take him for today?”

Luke’s eyebrows knit together. “I guess. What kind of meltdown are we talking about?”

“Nothing to worry about,” Ashton assures him hastily. “Anyway, I have work today. Call me if something’s wrong, or text if you have a question. Yeah?”

“Alright,” Luke says, perturbed. “When will you be back?”

“Around seven. Shit, that reminds me—Michael? Can you come here for a sec?”

Michael emerges from within the apartment, fidgeting with the hem of his baggy sweatshirt—Ashton’s sweatshirt. “Yeah?”

“Listen to me,” Ashton says softly, taking his hand. “I’ll be back around seven. I might be a little late. But I’m coming back. Got that? I’m just going to work.”

Michael nods, staring at the ground.

“I’ll see you tonight, okay?” Michael nods, wrapping his arms around himself. Ashton sighs. “Bye, Michael.”

Michael raises a parting hand. Ashton hopes Luke will figure things out.

 

* * *

 

Ashton gets no phone calls or texts from Luke, which he hopes is a good thing. He checks his cell obsessively throughout the day, even in class. When he gets off work in the evening, he practically runs to the car and speeds all the way there.

Luke opens the door, expressionless at first glance, though Ashton is looking past him for Michael. Luke leads him through the main areas to the living room, where Michael is curled up on the couch playing video games. “How was he?”

“Didn’t have any meltdowns,” Luke says under his breath, but looks troubled. “He’s been quiet all day.”

“He usually is.”

“No, I mean—can I talk to you?”

Ashton’s brow furrows. “Yeah, sure.” Luke nods and pulls him around the corner into the kitchen, away from Michael’s ears.

Luke crosses his arms, glancing towards the living room. “He’s exhibiting some really odd behaviors, Ash.”

“Odd how?”

Luke exhales heavily. “He wanted to clean, for instance. When has Michael ever wanted to clean?”

“I’m aware of that one.”

“Well, are you aware that he doesn’t do anything without being told? The first half hour, he just sat on the couch with his hands folded like he was waiting for instructions. That’s how it was all day. I asked him if he wanted to go get ice cream or something and he just looked baffled, like he didn’t even know he was _allowed_ to leave the house.”

Ashton frowns. “Go on.”

“He doesn’t eat. You see how thin he looks? He doesn’t eat unless you give him food, like he’s afraid he’s doing something wrong. I came out and asked if he had eaten lunch, or breakfast—he just stares at me, completely blank. Is he eating with you?”

Ashton runs a hand through his hair. “I didn’t—God, I don’t know. I’ve been leaving him alone, maybe—fuck, okay. I didn’t know. I’ll figure it out. Anything else?”

“I don’t know,” Luke says. “Listen. I don’t know how Oliver fucked him up, but he fucked him up bad. It’s none of my business, but if you ask me, I think he needs more than this. He needs stability. You’re gone too much.”

“Oh,” Ashton mumbles, crestfallen.

Luke sighs. “I know you’re doing what you can. Michael is grateful to have you, I know he is, and it’s the best thing for now. I just think he needs more.”

Ashton thinks Luke seems impossibly aged; maybe they all are now. He takes this news to heart, feeling heavy. “You’re right. I should be around more.” _Especially if Oliver wasn’t._

“And you can always take him to mine or Cal’s if you need. Don’t look so disappointed.”

“I know, I know. And I appreciate it, Luke. You’re a good kid. Really sensible about these things. I just want to be enough for him, you know?”

“He’s not ready for a relationship,” Luke says, mistaking Ashton’s intent.

“That’s not why I’m doing this.”

“Well, you should take him home,” Luke says, changing the subject. “Think about it, alright?”

“Yeah.” Ashton swings around the corner. “Michael, let’s go home. You ready?”

Michael shuts the game off without complaining and gets up to follow Ashton, waving and whispering a timid goodbye to Luke on his way. Luke beams as usual; Ashton notes with some alarm that Luke is taller than both of them at this point, especially Michael, although Michael’s submission can be deceptive. He’s not sure when Luke grew up so much, either.

“What did you do at Luke’s?” Ashton asks casually on the way home.

“Played games,” Michael says mildly. “Watched the birds outside. I was good. Promise.”

It sounds oddly childish, nervous even. Michael is so desperate to please.

“I know.” Ashton hedges, trying to bring the important things up. “Hey, Michael?”

“Yeah?”

“Would you rather be at Luke’s than mine during the day? So you’re not alone.”

Michael looks like he’s been slapped. Ashton doesn’t get it until he says anxiously, “Did I do something wrong?”

“No! No, I still want you with me. You didn’t do anything wrong. I just thought because—you must be bored by yourself.”

“I won’t do anything bad,” Michael hurries to say, clearly still stuck. “I won’t do anything at all. You can trust me. I—”

“Hey, I’m not mad,” Ashton interjects. “I know you won’t do anything bad.” _At least not to anything except yourself._ “I just think that, you know, it would be good for you to have some company. People need to socialize.”

“You want me to stay with Luke?”

“Just while I’m in school. Can you do that for me? Just so someone can look after you.”

Michael doesn’t respond, and Ashton hopes he’s not upset. Even if he is, it’s for his own good more than anything else. When they get home, Michael mumbles, “I want to go to bed,” and looks up at Ashton with hopeful eyes. _Waiting for permission._

Luke’s words flash through Ashton’s head. _Are you aware that he doesn’t do anything without being told?_

“You can go to bed,” Ashton says. “Can I talk to you about something first?”

Michael bites his lip apprehensively, hesitating in the doorway of the kitchen. “Did I mess up?”

“You’re not in trouble,” Ashton says, shaking his head. “C’mon, go sit on the couch.”

Michael does as he’s told. Ashton sits at a comfortable distance away from him.

Ashton takes a deep breath. “I want to ask you something.”

“Okay.”

“Luke said something interesting to me,” Ashton starts, folding his legs under himself and playing with the fraying denim of his jeans. “Do you eat, Michael?”

“Whatever you’ve given me, nothing more, I swear,” Michael says, looking horrified. Ashton _feels_ horrified. “I would never.”

“Michael, all I give you is dinner,” Ashton says, his stomach twisting. Oh, God, Luke was right. “Did Oliver—fuck, forget it, I don’t give a _shit_ about Oliver. I want you to eat whatever the fuck you want, okay? What. Ever. Clean out the whole fridge. I don’t care. I told you. This house is your house. You can do what you want. Yeah?”

Michael seems taken aback, and nods, his eyes blown out wide. “Yeah?”

“You’re so important, Michael,” Ashton says fiercely. “I know you think you’re not, and you don’t treat yourself like you’re important, but you are. You matter. Take care of yourself. Promise?”

Michael nods furiously, soaking in Ashton’s vehemence.

“Thanks.” Ashton reaches for Michael, sliding an arm around his shoulders and pulling him closer, kissing the top of his head. “You’re the best. I believe in you.”

Fuck Luke. Ashton’s doing just fine.

 

* * *

 

On Saturday evening, Ashton rents _Captain America_ and relaxes in bed, his computer screen lighting the dark room. He tucks his legs under the covers and lets the laptop rest on top as the opening credits roll onscreen.

Not long into the movie, his bedroom door cracks open slightly, allowing a slit of light in from the hallway. Ashton pauses the movie, tilting his screen down so it’s not blinding and looking towards the doorway.

Michael knocks softly on the door, although the door is already open. “Can I come in?”

“Yeah, c’mon,” Ashton says, scooting over to one side of the bed and making room for him. “I’m watching Captain America.”

Michael climbs wordlessly into bed beside Ashton, maintaining a separation between them. Ashton shifts the laptop over so it balances on both their laps and presses the play button.

It’s possibly the most normal thing they’ve done since Michael moved in, and probably the closest they’ve been save for sleeping at night. It’s definitely nowhere near as intimate as their previous relationship, but it’s almost enough to have Michael an inch away, close enough to hear his quiet breath in the background of the movie and the buzz of the laptop. Maybe this will be as close as they get, and maybe someday Ashton will be satisfied with just this much.

“I hate this part,” Michael whispers when Captain America’s team is preparing to zipline onto the train in the snow.

“I know,” Ashton says, watching the scene with the dreaded knowledge of what’s to come. Michael is tense beside him, his eyes glossy and wide. The movie reflects in his eyes.

The fight on the train goes down, and they’re preparing for the moment. When Bucky is dangling from the edge of the train over the ravine, they know.

Michael’s head slips onto Ashton’s shoulder, which startles him, but he doesn’t move away. Even when he gets stiff from sitting the same way the whole time, he refuses to give in to his body’s demand and stubbornly keeps still. After that, his focus isn’t really on the movie anymore (as if it was anywhere else since Michael arrived). Ashton is intensely aware of the boy leaning on his shoulder, of the delicacy of their connection.

He reminds himself not to get ahead of reality; that this little light in the tunnel is not a sign of how things always are. Michael is taking little steps, yes. Sleeping in the same bed with a pillow in between, eating a minimal lunch, this—it all seems trivial, but Ashton knows that to Michael, everything is a huge deal.

Ashton is reminded of when they would be curled up in bed like this together before, limbs tangled in the sheets and a casual arm hooked around each other’s waist. If they’d done anything, Michael always liked to stay the night. Ashton never refused. Perhaps he’d known, then, that he had a soft spot for the green-eyed boy. Michael was so grabby when they slept. He liked holding hands, he liked messy kisses and putting his hands over Ashton in that _I’m 18 and we just had sex_ sort of way. And Ashton liked that, because it was cute and _Michael_ was cute and there was something so sweet about the way Michael always smiled when he was asleep and cuddled against him.

What if he _had_ asked Michael to be his? If he’d beaten Oliver to it? He could have saved Michael. Or maybe it had to happen this way; maybe, the way they were before, Ashton could never have broken that barrier—would never have broken that barrier.

Ashton stops thinking when Captain America starts going down in that stupidass plane and making that stupid sad phone call to Peggy Carter, and Michael’s looking at the screen with that stupid sad expression, and _god_ does Ashton hate it, because it’s not really about Captain America now, it’s just that Michael makes that face all the time. And Ashton is an idiot, he really is, he’s just gone for this boy, so he slips his hand into Michael’s.

Ashton isn’t sure what he expected, but Michael closes his hand around Ashton’s, still watching the movie with half-lidded eyes. Ashton screams internally. He touched Michael, he did it, and Michael didn’t flinch away.

“This is alright?” Ashton whispers, praying praying praying that it won’t make the situation awkward.

“Yeah,” Michael whispers back. He chews on his lip for a few seconds and then releases it. “I like holding hands.”

“Yeah?”

“He didn’t do stuff like that,” Michael whispers. “He liked to kiss, hard.”

Ashton feels a growing sense of pride that he found something Michael liked, that Michael was okay with. At this point he might glue his hand to Michael’s, he’s so thrilled.

“I won’t kiss you.”

Michael nods absently, rubbing his cheek against Ashton’s shoulder. The movie finally ends and Ashton reluctantly shifts to close the computer and put it away. Michael sits up with a sleepy whine, detaching himself from Ashton. Ashton sets the laptop on the bedside table and wiggles down into bed.

“Are you going to go to sleep?” Michael asks.

“Yeah. I’m gonna drop off any minute now,” Ashton lies, though his face is heating and he can’t stand to think about Michael anymore.

“Okay. I’ll sleep too.” And just like that, Michael slides down next to him and turns over.

If Ashton said he didn’t like the way he could hear Michael’s soft and steady breathing until he fell asleep, well, he would be a liar.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it's been forever and updates may be slow bc i'm busy writing other things and doing hella hw and FUCKING fuck i'm getting writers' block :/  
> if you guys haven't already go check out the new story I posted (flowers in your hair) bc it's HELLA cute and it's also one of my favorite things and and and it's lashton so you mashton folks might be like eh but i think it's worth it  
> ummm? you are all lovely beings and I started thinking recently that it's really sad when a lot of people don't think they're beautiful or worthy of being happy and i want to let you know that you are all awesome and beautiful. if you needed someone to tell you.  
> okay okay that's all for now goodbye friends pls comment and feed my massive ego xxxxxxxxx


	11. 2-6

A week later, Michael wakes up in the middle of the night to get a glass of water, and he drops the glass in his sleepy haze. It shatters on impact.

The noise brings Ashton running. When he gets to the kitchen, Michael’s already on his  knees, trying to scoop the fragments of glass together. At the sound of Ashton’s footsteps, he turns and looks up at Ashton with tears threatening to spill. Ashton can barely see in the dark, but Michael’s eyes are bright and somehow, that stands out.

Ashton is tired and about to fall over, and as he steadies himself on the counter, he watches as Michael takes the bigger pieces and starts trying to fit them back together with a frantic urgency.

“Michael, leave it be,” Ashton whispers. “I’ll clean it up.”

Michael shakes his head. “I can put it back together, promise. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I fucked up, I—I can fix it, promise.”

“Michael—”

“I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry,” Michael rambles, trying harder. Tears slip down his face, and a piece of glass slices open his thumb. He hardly seems to notices.

“Fuck, drop it, Michael, I’ll take care of it,” Ashton says, heart jolting him awake. He bends and tries to pull the pieces away from Michael. It slips on his palm and leaves a jagged, stinging cut. At the sight of Ashton bleeding, Michael lets out a pained gasp and drops all the glass in his hands, exposing a spidery pattern of red on his hand. Ashton reaches to hold Michael, his arms reaching over the glass fragments in between, and Michael flinches away, scrambling backward. Blood stains the hardwood where his fingers made contact. Michael has trapped himself.

“Michael, baby,” Ashton pleads, trying to ignore the sickening pain in his hand. “I’m not mad. I need you to leave the glass and take care of your hand. Can you do that?”

Michael falls against a cabinet, cringing away. “I’m sorry. ’M sorry, Ash, I didn’t mean to.”

“Michael, I’m not going to hurt you,” Ashton says, standing slowly. “Baby, it’s okay. It was just an accident, I know. I need you to trust me now. We need to fix your hand before it gets infected. Can you trust me?”

Michael wipes his nose with the back of his hand and nods shakily. Ashton crosses to Michael, praying he won’t get glass in his feet. He reaches Michael and slowly, painfully slowly, he offers Michael his uninjured hand. Michael tentatively takes it. Ashton feels blood against his palm, and Michael whimpers as his weight pulls at the skin.

“It’s alright, baby, it’s going to stop hurting soon,” Ashton says, though he’s not sure it will. “Come on, let’s go to the bathroom. It’s okay.”

He leads Michael into the bathroom, flipping on the light. He digs out the antibacterial and holds Michael’s hands over the sink. The liquid itself looks like blood, dark and burnt. Ashton’s hand throbs as a reminder. _Quickly._

They’re running out of gauze, and Ashton uses the last on Michael.  He grabs a towel for himself and ties it around his hand without washing it out; he’ll probably survive.

Michael collapses onto the toilet lid, covering his face in his hands and beginning to sob. “I’m so sorry, Ash. Please don’t be mad, it was only an accident.”

“I’m not mad,” Ashton repeats, stroking his hair soothingly. “I promise I’m not mad. It’s okay, it’s okay. Hush, now.”

“I just wanted a glass of water,” he whispers, distraught. “I didn’t mean to mess up.”

His shoulders are shaking and his breath comes fast, too fast—Ashton is more concerned with his sliced up hands. With his own hand, too. It feels deep, it all looks deep. “Michael, I need you to stay calm, alright? I’m not mad about the glass. Accidents happen, I know.”

“Really?” Michael reaches up to grab the front of Ashton’s t-shirt; Ashton has noticed he does this, when they hug or when he’s upset. He likes having something to grab on to; maybe he just wants to make sure Ashton stays.

“Michael, I think we need to take you to the hospital,” Ashton says, getting a little dizzy. The blood’s starting to soak through the towel on his hand. Michael’s gauze is getting redder. God, he hates blood. “Your hands, they’re too—too cut up, I don’t think I can—Jesus.”

“No hospital,” Michael protests, tugging at his shirt. “I don’t—don’t wanna go back.”

“We have to,” Ashton says, shutting his eyes and steadying himself. His hand really fucking hurts. “You might need stitches, I don’t know. Fuck, we gotta go to the hospital, Michael. Can you grab your shoes?”

Michael nods, afraid to dissent. He scrambles off, still hesitant to leave Ashton’s side.

While he’s gone, Ashton stumbles across the hall and knocks on Brendon and Pete’s door. Once, twice, three times. He slumps against the wall, his legs trying to give out on him.

Pete answers right when Ashton is about to give up. His short hair is disheveled and his eyes half shut.

“Ashton?” he says sleepily. “What’s going on?”

“You know how to drive,” Ashton says. “Can you do me a favor?”

Twenty minutes later, they’re headed to the emergency room.

Michael doesn’t have very fond memories of hospitals, since he spent quite a lengthy period in one recently. But he stays quiet and doesn’t fight. They sit in the emergency room lobby together, waiting to be called.

Ashton wouldn’t know how to explain the night to Pete, so he’s grateful for his lack of curiosity. Pete says he’ll stay and drive them back, and Ashton is glad.

They call Michael in first, because Ashton prioritized him. The dried blood is turning brown against the white towel; it still hurts, still bleeds in fits and starts.

“What’s the deal with this kid?” Pete asks. Ashton turns to stare at him, surprised. “He’s the same kid we took care of that one night, right?”

“Yeah, he—his name is Michael.” Ashton sighs. “He’s staying with me for a while. Just until he gets back on his feet.”

“What’s his deal, though? He homeless, parents kick him out?”

Ashton shakes his head. “He was—in a really bad relationship.”

“Bad? Like how?”

“His boyfriend liked to slap him around,” Ashton admits tiredly. He doesn’t talk about how bad it really was. “And his parents are away for a while. He needed some taking care of.”

Pete nods. “You’re doing good, kid. He wouldn’t let go of you on the way here. He really trusts you.”

“I guess.” Ashton leans back in his chair. It’s plastic, stiff. Michael should be back soon. He presses on the towel, noticing the bleeding starting up again.

“Seriously. I don’t know what happened tonight but—hey, what’s wrong?”

Ashton is crumpling in his chair. His upper body slides sideways as his head spins. It feels like the air in the room has thickened, and he can’t breathe it in.

Pete gets up to notify someone that Ashton is probably going to pass out. In a few minutes, a nurse comes along to take him. It’s a male nurse, which Ashton is thankful for, because it means he can lean on the man pretty heavily. They take him into an examination room and he collapses onto the paper covered bed. Someone brings him a glass of water while the nurse inspects his hand.

Turns out, he needs stitches. The glass sliced him deep, and he was too distracted by Michael to realize the severity. He catches Pete standing in the doorway while a nurse brings in the equipment.

“Pete,” he says, eyes widening. “Is Michael okay?”

“He’s just getting finished,” he assures Ashton. “Needed a few stitches, but it was mostly superficial.”

Thank goodness. “Can you stay with him? Please?”

Pete agrees and hurries off, and the doctor comes in to start.

Ashton winces as the doctor injects the painkiller. It pinches a bit, and he’s anticipating the stitches will hurt worse.

“Don’t suppose you know the kid whose hands I just stitched up,” the doctor says with a smile, stepping back and waiting for the anæsthetic to take effect.

Ashton bites at his lip. “Michael?”

“Something like that. Know him?”

“He’s my—” What are they? Friends? Best friends? Friends with benefits? Ashton wants to say _boyfriend,_ but he doesn’t. “—We live together.”

“Well, I don’t know how you two ended up here. Were you fighting?”

“What?”

“Sometimes couples get a little violent together. It’s not as uncommon as you’d think.” Ashton is hardly one to dispute the frequency of domestic violence.

“We’re not a couple,” Ashton says. “It’s complicated.”

“Hold that thought. I’m going to start stitching you up, alright? You probably won’t feel a thing.”

Ashton grits his teeth and braces himself for a piercing pain that never comes. To his mild surprise, he feels nothing in his hand. Not even the doctor’s fingers brushing against him. The anæsthetic must be pretty strong. Last time he was anæsthetized was when he broke his wrist.

Honestly, it’s more frightening to watch a needle dipping in and out of his hand than anything else, because he really doesn’t feel anything except a bit of a tugging sensation. He tries to keep his mind on Michael and the fact that he can see him after this.

The needle pulls through for the last time, and Ashton breathes a sigh of relief.

“All done,” the doctor says. “You’re free to go now.”

“Thank you,” Ashton manages to blurt out before he scrambles through the halls to get back to the lobby.

Michael sits with Pete in the lobby. Both look tired, Michael particularly so; his eyes are red rimmed and puffy. Ashton wants to ease the worried set of his shoulders.

“We can go,” he says. “How was it? Got all stitched up?”

Michael holds up his hands and smiles briefly. Ashton grins and holds up his own hand.

“Well, let’s get you two home before I fall asleep,” Pete says, standing up. “Ready?”

On the way home, Michael clings to Ashton like a leech. Ashton knows he must be ready to fall asleep. The night must have really taken it out of him, or he wouldn’t be leaning the way he is.

“You like him?” Pete asks from behind the wheel, and Ashton panics before he realizes Michael is asleep.

“What?” he says as casually as possible. _“No.”_

“You sure? You’re blushing.”

Ashton claps a hand to his cheek, cringing. “You don’t think he knows, do you?”

“Honestly, Ash, if what you told me is true, I think it’s the last thing on his mind.” Pete is gentle, which Ashton is grateful for. “And it’s not that he doesn’t love you, alright? He’s focusing on hanging on. And he should. When things are different, maybe he’ll open his eyes.”

Ashton sighs. Why is everyone smarter than him?

“You’re right. It would be selfish to ask more of him.”

“Believe me. You’re gonna figure things out. Both of you. He’ll heal, I promise. And when he does, it’ll feel right. You’ll be able to tell. When he’s ready to love you back, you’ll know.”

 

* * *

 

Ashton struggles not to fall completely in love with Michael.

It was easiest in the beginning, when he had just brought Michael home and Michael was so fragile that Ashton could only see him as a victim. But now, after a few months, bits and pieces of the old Michael shows through. Even new things. Ashton finds Michael’s newfound reticence endearing in certain situations; he’s bashful in the mornings especially, all shy smiles and sleepy eyes. Michael is clingy sometimes, when things scare him (someone was yelling down the hall, a customer at Ashton’s work got too confrontational).

Ashton loves when Michael sings softly in the shower, loves waking up next to him and smiling at each other as the sunlight fills their eyes, loves holding hands with Michael when they walk down the street, loves when Michael eats full meals and his hesitation starts slowly wearing off.

Mostly, Ashton just loves Michael.

Sure, Michael is still functioning at 10% normal and 90% victim, but the progress is so slow that Ashton will take anything. After a while, it starts looking too good, and he has to stop himself.

Michael still cries when he drops things, still tries to clean things. One night he got up at two and went to go clean the counters. Ashton tossed out the ammonia based cleaner for that reason, but the physical damage is not the only damage that Michael perpetuates. He still sometimes skips lunch if nobody’s around to tell him it’s okay, and he has yet to leave the house while Ashton is gone.

Michael is so used to being punished for everything he does that he melts down whenever he thinks he’s made a mistake. Ashton has never once raised his voice at him, not that Michael’s even given him a reason to. But his fear remains, and Ashton knows that he needs to wait until Michael is ready.

Today’s Michael’s birthday, and they’re all supposed to be surprising him at Calum’s place. Ashton would normally take him to one of the boys’ places while he went to class, but today he isn’t going to school. His grades can take a hit. For Michael, they can.

Michael has been indifferent about the whole birthday thing thus far, which makes Ashton nervous. What if Michael doesn’t want to be surprised? Sure, they’re a bit old for birthday parties, but there’s nothing wrong with celebration, right? And plus, this symbolizes more than just a passing of a year. It symbolizes survival, beginning again. A _we made it._

Ashton leads Michael up to Calum’s apartment, keeping up the pretenses. He prays Calum and Luke have their shit together by now. _Please let this be perfect. Please let this be perfect._

“Here we go,” Ashton mutters under his breath, opening the door.

“Surprise!” Calum screams at the same time Luke yells, “Fuck!” loud enough to wake the dead.

Calum blows one of the party horns and beams, and they all try to ignore the fact that Luke’s hopping on one foot and cursing repeatedly, and not quietly, either.

“Happy birthday,” Ashton says weakly.

“What?” Michael says, bewildered. He wraps his arms around himself, clearly unsure of himself. “What’s going on?” He looks at Ashton helplessly.

“We’re throwing you a party,” Calum says. “I mean, not a very good one. But we made cake. I think. And got balloons, and—and stuff. And we’re all skipping school and work and shit.”

Michael’s eyes are wide and for a minute he doesn’t seem to know what to do with himself. Then, waveringly, as if his ears deceive him, he says, “Really?”

Luke stops hopping around and whispering _fuckfuckmotherfucker_ long enough to say, “Course, you’re our best mate,” as if it’s the most natural thing in the world. He flops onto the couch with a groan and begins to inspect his foot.

“What the fuck did you do?” Ashton asks.

“I knocked over a chair on my foot,” Luke says, wincing. “I think it’s broken.”

“Oh, get over yourself,” Calum says scornfully.

Michael breathes out heavily beside Ashton and Ashton looks at him in surprise. Michael’s covering his mouth with his hand, staring at the ground.

“Shit, don’t cry,” Calum says in alarm. “This is a day of celebration. You cry and I swear I will too.”

“Won’t, I won’t,” Michael swears, eyes swiveling to the ceiling. He runs under his eyes, pulling away any tears. “I’m okay, really.”

“Then it’s time to celebrate,” Calum says quickly. “Luke, you gonna live, or d’you need a hospital?”

“Oh, shut up.”

“Alright, I’ll get the presents.”

Calum scrambles off. Ashton is still concerned. “You okay, Michael? You sure this is alright?”

“You guys actually—took time off and—did something nice,” Michael flounders, completely awestruck. He still looks a little watery-eyed.

“Yeah,” Luke says indignantly. “We can be nice, you know. I know those two are a little pigheaded, but—”

“Excuse me?”

“—and it was my idea, mind.”

“For me, though,” Michael clarifies softly. “You did all this for—me.”

“Course we did,” Luke says again. “Of course.”

“Presents,” Calum sing songs. He starts heaping them on the table. “It’s the best we could do.”

“The best they could do” is a few band t-shirts, a new pair of earrings, a hoodie, and, inexplicably, a curved barbell from Luke.

“What’s that for?” Ashton says with a frown. “He can’t wear that in his ears.”

“Oh,” Luke says, flushing dark. “I’m—I just meant, if he wanted to get his eyebrow pierced—” Michael closes his mouth tight and nods, and meets Luke’s eyes. Ashton gets the distinct feeling that he and Calum are missing something. “—I’d take him.”

“It’s all lovely,” Michael says, in awe as his eyes rake over the gifts. “Thanks. I—I didn’t expect anything.You didn’t have to.”

“That’s what friends are for,” Calum says confidently. “Who wants cake?”

The day goes well, all things considered. Apart from the strange exchange between Luke and Michael, everything goes as planned. An hour later, they all sit in the living room, stuffed full of rainbow cake that was only half baked (but Michael insisted was the best cake he ever had). All in all, Ashton thinks it was a success. They’ve been joking all day, easy and lighthearted, as if nothing has changed, although Michael is shyer than before.

They stay all day at Calum’s, playing video games and messing around with each other and the instruments lying about. It’s such a gratifying thing to hear Michael laugh out loud, unplagued by worry or self-consciousness. By the time the evening comes around, they’re all tuckered out and ready to go home.

Michael is quiet on the way back, but it’s a happy, contented silence. Ashton hopes the feeling of this day will stay with him.

Michael leans against the kitchen counter with a happy smile. “Thanks.”

“For?”

“Everything.” He sighs. “I didn’t expect anything. And it was—nice.”

Ashton braces his arms on either side of Michael, grinning stupidly. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” Michael doesn’t move. “I love you guys.”

“We love you,” Ashton says, and leans closer. Michael looks so good in this light, in the Misfits t-shirt Ashton got him, smiling all gentle and glowing. “Just wanted you to have a good day.” Michael’s eyes have that surreal quality, the look of being between-worlds. Ethereal, translucent. Beautiful, if you can get close enough to see. If he lets you.

When Michael started showing up on his doorstep, the first night, he was close enough to see it fade.

“I love you back,” Michael says softly, touching Ashton’s t-shirt. He probably means all of them, and Ashton catches himself wishing it was just for him. Michael’s fingers are gentle on his stomach and Ashton can’t breathe with him like this.

“Would you be okay if--” Ashton starts, then stops.

“What?” Michael asks, turning his face up to Ashton’s. Ashton scans his face, the innocence inconsistent with his experience.

“Forget it,” Ashton breathes. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

Michael’s forehead wrinkles in confusion. “Hurt me?”

“You look kissable, is all,” Ashton says softly, “but I said I wouldn’t.”

Michael exhales. “I do?”

Ashton tilts his head, smiling lightly. “Always thought you did.”

“You can kiss me,” Michael says unexpectedly, shyly. “If you don’t do it hard. If it doesn’t hurt.”

“I will never hurt you,” Ashton says, brushing his thumb against Michael’s jaw. Gently, gently, touching foreheads, touching noses.

When they do kiss, it feels like open skies and the lurching feeling in your stomach when the plane takes off. Scary, but light and free.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is the end of what i have pre-written so from here on out u better start praying fr updates  
> but i like this chapter it's nice  
> this story probably won't be too much longer but it's been nice  
> luv u all pls feed my ego xx


	12. 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> this is the last chapter :) watch out for some very mild and vague sexual activity in the last section that i don't think even deserves to be tagged as smut bc it's really not

Michael starts settling down late June of the next year. It gives Ashton the hope that maybe Michael will be ready at some point to go to college and start up his life again. He’s starting to break out of some of the worst habits, like instinctively cleaning. He’s learning to be brave again, learning to trust that Ashton won’t punish him for even the littlest of things. He talks a little louder, walks a little prouder, and Ashton is so blessed to be beside him for it.

The first day Ashton comes home to dishes in the sink and Michael eating a sandwich at the table, Ashton cannot stop smiling. It’s such a small sign that Michael is recovering, but that’s how the whole journey has been. Ashton could not be prouder of Michael.

The group starts going out every Sunday night for dinner together. Now that they’re not all in high school with each other, it seems especially important to stay connected, especially since Michael needs the support. His parents came back into town from their vacation a long time back, but Michael hadn’t wanted to tell them what had happened to him; Ashton had called them instead to let them know that he was staying with him and not Oliver as they had thought. They remain estranged, and Ashton tries to avoid talking about them so he won’t see the vulnerability in Michael’s eyes.

Ashton is working towards teaching internships. He’s set his heart on teaching music, and it’s been easier to focus with Michael needing less. Michael hasn’t made a decision about going back to college, and Ashton thinks he still holds on to the security blanket of being safe at home with Ashton.

Tonight, they make dinner together. Ashton is head over heels for moments like this where he could close his eyes and picture living a domestic life with Michael. It’s not too far of a stretch, but Michael isn’t ready, and Ashton would never push him, as desperate as he is. He lets Michael control the pace, chaste kisses and holding hands when they go places. Cuddling at night, if Michael is up to it. But Michael asks Ashton to not call it anything; he doesn’t want to be friends with benefits again, he doesn’t want to be boyfriends. Ashton does as he asks, knowing that pressuring Michael into a relationship is unfair. Michael isn’t commitment challenged, he isn’t playing with Ashton’s feelings or using him; Ashton understands that he wants to take it at a snail’s pace and that he’s nervous to use the word relationship.

“Toss me the salt shaker,” Ashton says, stirring the soup on the stove.

“Literally?” Michael says mischievously. He holds it in his hand, hefting it experimentally in his palm.

“Sure,” Ashton says, and Michael chucks it at him underhand. Ashton swears as he fumbles it and it falls. Michael jumps slightly, chewing on his bottom lip worriedly, but Ashton laughs and he relaxes again.

Months ago, Michael would have broken down crying.

Michael even looks healthier; he’s put on a bit of the normal weight, taking away the gaunt, underfed look he had sported before. He still worries about his tummy being soft—he frowns whenever Ashton pokes it—but Ashton thinks it’s cute, and makes him look more like the Michael he used to know.

“Are you almost done?” Michael whines. “I’m hungry.”

Ashton rolls his eyes. “You’re such a baby. Get the bowls down.”

Michael complies easily, reaching up on tiptoes to grab them and setting them on the counter. Ashton grabs a ladle and scoops some soup for both of them. They grab their bowls and sit at the table across from each other.

“Good soup,” Michael says.

“I know,” Ashton replies with a smirk. “How was your day?”

“Good, Luke got a new video game. I totally crushed him, too. And we ordered pizza in.”

“Lucky,” Ashton sulks. “The school cafeteria was serving casserole.”

“Too bad for you,” Michael says unapologetically.

“Ha. I’ll be making _you_ casserole if you keep that up.”

Michael makes a face and digs into his soup again. After a minute or so of not talking, he ventures a bit shyly, “I’ve been thinking a lot.”

Ashton puts his spoon down, nearly done thanks to his mammoth young appetite. “Bout what? What a great cook I am?”

“I’m not stroking your ego,” Michael shoots back.

“Alright, what?”

“Just—you know,” he says with an embarrassed smile. “Trying normal things again.”

Ashton is a little surprised. “Yeah? Like what?”

Michael shrugs. “I-I think I want to get a job. Talk to my parents again, date. I don’t know. Whatever I would have done in the first place.”

“Go back to school?”

Michael tilts his head. “Yeah, maybe.”

Ashton leans back in his chair. He didn’t expect Michael to jump back in so soon. “I’m all for that, yeah.”

He must not look too sure, because Michael adds nervously for him, “But?”

Ashton takes a deep breath. “I will never stop you from pursuing things that make you happy. I just want you to be completely ready. There’s no rush. Right? Do you think you’re ready?”

Michael sighs. “It was just a thought.”

“Hey, if you want to do all those things, I would be proud of you. I would be beside you all the way. I’m just making sure.”

Michael folds his hands in his lap. “Maybe not all at once. Little by little?”

“Seems good to me,” Ashton assents. “You wanna start small? Call your parents, get back in touch? You don’t have to tell them about—”

“I’ll call them soon,” Michael says, a little hesitant. “Maybe.”

Ashton nods. “Sure, whenever you’re ready. You done with your soup?”

Michael holds it out piteously. Ashton takes it from him with a roll of his eyes and brings their bowls to the kitchen, sticking them in the dishwasher. “I’m gonna take a shower,” Ashton says. “Be out in a bit.”

“Can I come too?” Michael says, folding his hands in front of himself and looking up at Ashton with big, anxious eyes.

Michael is just full of surprises tonight.

“Hell yeah,” Ashton says enthusiastically.

“But just, just showering,” Michael adds. “I don’t wanna fool around.”

Ashton recalls several occasions in which he and Michael had showered together and had some really mind blowing sex. He would not be opposed to repeating the experience. Really, really would not be opposed. Still, he’s down for a platonic, PG shower. Nothing wrong with that, he supposed, as long as he doesn’t make things awkward. He hasn’t seen Michael naked in a long, long time. He’s man enough to control his dick, at least.

“We won’t do anything you don’t want,” Ashton says with a wink. “I’ll wash your back and you wash mine.”

Michael smiles, visibly relieved. “Alright.”

“Go on, then. We should get a move on.” Ashton leads the way to the bathroom, Michael trailing behind.

Ashton has no trouble stripping down in front of Michael; Michael has seen him innumerable times with not a stitch of fabric on. But Michael is a changed person, Ashton is reminded, as he hesitates with his hands on the hem of his shirt.

“It’s alright,” Ashton says, softening up and dropping his voice. “Michael, there’s nothing to worry about.”

Michael still doesn’t look sure. “I don’t know,” he says uncertainly, face falling. He’s having second thoughts, and Ashton wants to slow him down.

“I don’t care what’s underneath your clothes,” Ashton says calmly. “I won’t judge. I promise it’s okay. It’s just me, remember? I’ve seen you naked. There’s nothing I haven’t seen before.”

Michael doesn’t seem to be up to the same degree of shamelessness that Ashton displayed, but he tugs his shirt over his head and slips out of his jeans and boxers. He covers himself a little, shy. He always was a little bashful when it came to getting naked, but not like this, not quite this way.

Ashton tries to pretend he doesn’t see the scars.

He flips on the shower, nice and hot the way he likes, and defers to Michael. “This alright for you?”

Michael tests it with a finger, then nods. Ashton slips in and Michael follows after him. Ashton turns away from him to recompose himself, mulling over what he had seen. There are surgical scars over his chest, those are clean incisions and nearly gone by now anyway. But there are other scars, jagged and scattered, that Ashton knows nothing about.

“Can I do your hair?” Michael asks timidly from behind, jerking Ashton’s focus back. Ashton smiles.

“Yeah, go for it,” Ashton says, and Michael grabs the shampoo/conditioner combo off the shower caddy and sinks his hands into Ashton’s hair, working it through. It tickles a bit, and Ashton giggles, drawing one from Michael too.

“Your hair is getting so long,” Michael marvels. “I miss it being short.”

“Well, learn to love it, because I’m not going to do anything about it,” Ashton scoffs. “You about done yet?”

“Touchy.” Michael practically shoves Ashton under the spray. He tugs his hands through his hair again, rinsing out the foam.

“Alright, lemme do yours,” Ashton says, turning around. Michael obligingly turns his back, and Ashton swallows a gasp. Michael must not notice, because he doesn’t turn around. “Michael?”

Michael turns his head, confused. “Yeah?”

Ashton sucks in a breath. “What happened to your back?”

Michael reaches back and runs a finger over the raised bumps that criss cross his back. “Oh,” he says softly, voice almost lost beneath the noise of the water. “I forgot.” He completely shrinks, shoulders hunching forward as he curls in on himself. Ashton wants to take his question back, regretting his lack of tact.

“It’s okay,” Ashton says, draping himself over Michael’s shoulders. The water flows down around both of them, creating an unbroken wet film that slides down their skin. “It’s okay. You don’t have to answer. I’m sorry.”

Michael lets out a little sigh, tipping his head up. “It’s okay,” he repeats, and Ashton thinks he’s trying to comfort himself until he realizes he’s trying to comfort Ashton. “It was after I spent that night at your place. When I left, and I was mad. It was stupid, all of it. I knew when I had left that I should have stayed.”

“You don’t have to,” Ashton repeats, already shutting his eyes. “I don’t need to know.”

“The only reason I had gotten here was because he had been punchy and wanted to teach me a lesson, I guess. He had driven me out here and then he left me on the side of the road, told me to walk home.” Michael’s shoulders tighten. “I knew you’d take care of me, but it wasn’t worth it.”

“I don’t—”

“When I got home the next morning he was pissed,” Michael says, cutting him off almost frantically. “Said he’d driven all over after a few hours trying to find where I’d gone. He asked where I had gone, I told him I had stayed at yours. He slapped me around a bit, then ripped off my shirt and pushed me on the bed and took off his belt. He said he was going to teach me a lesson I wouldn’t forget this time.”

Ashton shudders and a wave of nausea rolls over him. Fuck. If Ashton ever sees Oliver again, he’s going to pay.

“He took my phone after that, saw all our messages. He texted you from my phone that we shouldn’t be friends, and then I guess he must have broken it, or something.” Michael shrugs lightly, and straightens. “It’s over now.”

Ashton recognizes the phrase as one he has frequently repeated in the past month. It comforts him, perhaps, to know he won’t go back. Ashton tightens his grip around Michael’s shoulders. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s over now.”

Ashton lets him leave it at that and pulls away, soaping his back and smiling at Michael’s little sigh of content. He wishes he could scrub those scars right off. In times like this, everything seems just so unfair.

“You ready to get out?” Ashton asks after a while. Michael nods and steps over the tub’s edge, reaching for a towel to dry himself off. Ashton takes his own towel and uses it to dry Michael’s hair, eliciting a giggle. He dries himself off. “C’mon, we gotta get dressed.”

Michael lets Ashton lead him back to the bedroom and they get into their clothes together. It really feels like dating, when they’re like this. Maybe someday Michael will be ready.

When they lie in bed together that night, Michael snuggles against the curve of Ashton’s body, completely zonked. Ashton is still awake, if barely, thinking about Michael.

He hates to imagine everything Michael suffered.

Michael looks so lovely when he’s sleeping; everyone does, but Ashton thinks it’s worth pointing out. Michael is so often troubled when awake, even now, that Ashton loves seeing his features relax entirely.

Ashton’s mind is in pieces, as usual. His half-asleep thoughts jump from how in love he is with the boy lying in his embrace to the awful things that have transpired, to their future. Ashton has had girlfriends and boyfriends before, but not for a while. He wants this beautiful thing to love him back.

Ashton sighs and throws an arm over Michael. All in good time, he supposes. Michael will be ready someday, and Ashton will wait until then.

 

* * *

 

Michael asks Ashton a week later if they can visit his house. He’s thought about it a while, Ashton can tell, from the little puffs of air and traveling eyes.

“I don’t know if they’ll even want to see me,” Michael frets. “Don’t call them. If they see me, they’ll understand.”

“We can’t just blindside them, Michael.”

“They might turn me away if we call. They’ll have to hear me out.”

Ashton thinks the plan is flawed, that Michael’s parents would probably rather they called and let them know, but Michael is convinced. Ashton wonders if it’s easier to think that, because at least he’ll get to see them again. Michael never says, but Ashton suspects he misses them quite a bit.

Sunday afternoon, Ashton drives Michael to his parents’ house and drops him off. Michael has been playing with the sleeves of his sweater the whole time, silent as he stares out the window. Ashton can sense the nervous energy pouring off him.

“You’ll be okay, right?” Ashton checks. “I can come in, if you like.”

“I should do this alone,” Michael says with as much conviction as he can muster.

Ashton smiles encouragingly. “I believe in you. Good luck.”

Michael nods hurriedly and closes the car door. He starts up the driveway, eyes focused on the goal ahead. Ashton waits until the door opens.

It’s Michael’s mother, which Ashton thinks is a good thing. In his limited experience, mothers always tend to be more forgiving. He can’t see Michael’s face, but he’s sure he’s nervous, because he makes anxious hand gestures and tugs at his hair quite a bit. It’s mostly gone back to his natural hair color, a dirty blond that Ashton loves even more than the pretty fluorescents he used to try.

After a tense few minutes, Michael finally steps inside, and then the door shuts behind him. Ashton sighs and leans. There’s nothing to do but wait.

It takes a few hours, which Ashton isn’t sure how to perceive. He assumes it’s a good thing, because it means they probably heard Michael out.

Michael emerges from the house after a long time, and Ashton can see him hugging his mother with his father standing behind. He walks out to the car, expression indiscernible. Ashton mentally crosses his fingers.

Michael slides into the passenger seat and buckles himself in. “How did it go?” Ashton asks, resisting his over eager instinct.

“They heard me out,” Michael says, knotting his hands together. “Told them where I’d been, why I’m with you. My mum was glad to see me again. She—she said she hoped I would come back.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Michael says with a smile, but it threatens to break. He doesn’t say anything else, and Ashton wonders if something is wrong or it’s still a bit of a shock, too much to take in.

“Well, I’m happy for you,” Ashton says warmly, hoping to bolster his spirits. “Why don’t we go home, yeah?”

Michael nods and stares out the window. Ashton lets him be. With space, Michael will surely level out. Meeting his parents had to be an emotional experience. So they drive home, and Ashton lets Michael have his privacy. Michael disappears to the bedroom first thing.

Ashton gets to work on dinner, as always. Michael will probably want something comforting, so he decides to just make the boxed mac and cheese. It’s nice sometimes to have things that they ate as children; Ashton remembers his own mum making it.

Michael is unusually quiet at dinner. “Do you wanna tell me what happened today?” Ashton says, hesitant to pry. Michael has that sober look, the kind he used to have all the time when he first came.

Michael sets down his fork and wipes his mouth. “Uh, they were surprised to see me. I mean, obviously, but I guess my mum was relieved. She never wanted me to move in with Oliver, you know? We used to fight about it. She cried when I said I was moving out, and my dad told me that he didn’t want me back in his house. That’s when he cut me off and—it made me dependent on Oliver. But I think he was glad to see me too.”

Ashton nods. “Of course. You’re always their son.”

Michael nods and sighs. “I know. And it was nice, really. They were a little disappointed that I had dropped out of school. You know? And I told them about how Oliver—hurt me, I just—didn’t tell them I was in the hospital, and that I wasn’t well. My mum, she understood anyway.”

Ashton takes a bite of macaroni and watches Michael. He speaks with his head down, his pale eyes shadowed by the angle. He looks defeated.

“My dad didn’t believe me, though,” Michael says softly.

“What?” Ashton’s forehead crinkles in confusion. “What do you mean?”

Michael coughs politely. “He, uh—thought I made it up. What Oliver did to me.”

Ashton is startled into silence for a bit. It feels like it stretches on for ages as he processes everything—the slump of Michael’s shoulders and the doubtful look on his face. _Does_ Michael doubt it? Ashton knows he remembers everything—Michael told him so. Neither of them think Michael will ever forget. But Ashton has seen everything happen, saw Michael’s slow descent. He knows for sure Michael didn’t imagine it.

“Michael,” Ashton starts. “Look at me.”

Michael does, but starts talking. “I know it’s stupid. I remember what he did. I still have proof all over my body. I have my hospital bracelet still, the insurance bill—I know it all happened.”

“Why do you doubt it still?” Ashton reaches across the table and lays a hand on Michael’s arm.

“I don’t know,” Michael admits. “Sometimes I want to believe that I didn’t live that.”

“Your dad is an asshole who _didn’t_ live that. You did, and you will have to live with that. It’s just something you’ve been through. It’s going be the past someday.”

“I know.” Michael smiles weakly. “He told me that boys can’t be abused that—it doesn’t work that way, and I’m exaggerating.”

“You’re not exaggerating,” Ashton says, shaking his head. “I saw you, Michael. I know what happened to you.”

“I don’t want to forget yet,” Michael says, staring down at his pasta. “But I think memories go away if you never talk about them.”

“Do you want to talk about them?” Ashton offers. He’s never asked, because he never wanted Michael to feel pressured. He thinks sometimes he might never find out at all.

“In time,” Michael says with a sad smile. “I’ll tell you someday.”

 

* * *

 

Michael comes home screaming one week that he’s got a job.

“Ashton!” he shrieks, rocketing into the living room where Ashton is watching TV. He climbs into Ashton’s lap and plants a messy kiss on his cheek. His face is glowing, cheeks bright with rare color and eyes alive. Ashton is surprised—not unpleasantly—by Michael’s overt and enthusiastic affection. Michael practically bounces in his lap. “Ashton, Ashton.”

“What?” Ashton says, pausing the tv and adjusting so Michael balances better.

“I got a job,” Michael announces, beaming. “At the food court in the mall, that pricey hipster fruit drink place. You don’t have to buy me things now.”

Ashton laughs and pulls Michael higher on his lap, kissing him full on. “Good for you. Wanna start paying the rent too?”

“Nope,” Michael says. “When I’m rich, maybe.”

Ashton smiles; he loves to have this beautiful boy sitting inches away with sheer joy written all over his face. “That’s awesome news. I’m glad to hear it. What’s the next step?”

“I get my paycheck on Friday,” Michael says excitedly. “I’ll tell you soon.”

“Wanna have celebratory sex?”

“You wish,” Michael says, and grinds down lightly before hopping off and skipping down the hallway to the room.

Ashton fondly watches him go; he could not have pictured Michael integrating back into normalcy so cleanly. Finally, the darkness that they’ve been surrounded in is lifting.

 

* * *

 

Several Fridays later, Michael is waiting for Ashton at the door. He’s got a shit-eating grin and Ashton is concerned.

“Well, hello,” Ashton says. “What’s this about?”

“You asked me what the next step was,” Michael says, smiling widely.

“I did.”

“The next step,” Michael says proudly, “is a _date_.”

Ashton shouldn’t feel his heart pounding like this; he shouldn’t be giddy and unprepared. But he is. Perhaps he never realized the extent of the effect Michael has on him; an effect that dwindled with Michael’s health, rose with his recovery. Something that sends his heart reeling.

“Okay,” he says at last, beaming. “Like, a date date? Boyfriends date?”

Michael just smiles.

“Okay, where are we going?”

“It’s a big ass surprise. You ready to go?”

“Now?”

Michael cocks his head, and Ashton stutters, “Shit—yeah, I’m ready. _So_ ready.” Michael leans forward and kisses Ashton’s cheek.

“I know you are,” he says with a smile. He grabs Ashton’s hand _fuck_ and reopens the door. “Cal’s waiting in the parking lot.”

“He’s not coming with us, is he?” Ashton asks frantically.

“I can’t drive, Ashton,” Michael says, dragging him through the hallway. “You’re going to have to live with some things.”

“Okay, but just us, right? You didn’t mean boyfriends date as in we’re going to date Cal? Or I’m driving?” Ashton is only half joking.

Michael jostles Ashton. “Nobody is dating Cal. And I mean _nobody_.”

“Okay, okay.”

Calum is sitting in the driver’s seat of his car, dozing. Michael raps on the window and he jerks awake, unlocking the doors. They climb into the back together, and then Ashton realizes that Luke’s sitting on the passenger’s side.

“What’s he doing here?” he asks, almost offended. “What, is this a party?”

“Calum told me you guys were going on your first date and so I decided to come along,” Luke says brightly.

“We’re just so excited,” Calum adds as he begins to pull out of the parking space. “We’ve been waiting for, like, years to see this happen.”

“You have not.”

“We totally have. Ever since we took Michael’s phone and found a picture of your dick. We knew it was going to happen.”

Michael’s ears flush pink and he stares determinedly out the window. Ashton does distinctly remember an inordinate amount of sexting after they’d fucked the first time; to Michael, especially, it had been new. Everything had been so different, casual; Ashton hadn’t foreseen the black hole that had swallowed up nearly two years of his and Michael’s lives.

The streets are fairly alive tonight; Ashton lives in a college town, and most people are out partying or hitting the town. Usually, he and Michael stay home and have dinner together, which Ashton guesses is what they’re doing, minus the home part. But he knows it’ll be special tonight.

“Where are we going?” Ashton whines. “How long is it going to take?”

“Maybe fifteen minutes?” Michael says distractedly. He’s buzzing with excitement, and Ashton’s feeling nervous and overeager and uncertain of himself.

“It better be special,” Ashton warns teasingly. Michael’s smile falters for a minute, so he takes Michael’s hand and says after a moment, “Hey. Of course it will be. I trust you.” Michael squeezes his hand.

“Save your sappy shit for when we get there,” Calum says from the front. “You’ll have all the time in the world.”

“I thought you said you were waiting for this?”

“Yeah, but, like—I’ve seen your dick pics. I’ve had enough for a lifetime.”

“I get it, you guys are big fucking spies and saw things you shouldn’t,” Ashton says sharply.

“We don’t even fuck anymore,” Michael supplies. Ashton agrees and sticks his middle finger up at Luke when he tries to add to the conversation.

Finally, Calum pulls over to the side of the road. The waterfront is fifteen feet or so to the left, a quiet and soothing sound emanating forth. “Here you are,” Calum says. “Get the fuck out of my car. Use condoms.”

“Fuck you,” Ashton mutters, climbing out of the car. Michael gets out and comes around to stand with him on the pavement, and they watch the car peel away. “So what’re we doing, then?”

Michael takes his hand; Michael’s skin is warm and smooth against Ashton’s, taking off the edge of the night breeze. “Come on. It’s just up the road.”

Michael leads Ashton uphill to where a restaurant is located. It looks lovely from the outside, and Ashton shivers. “Michael.”

“Wait,” Michael says excitedly. “It gets better.” He surges forward and they enter the restaurant. It looks so fancy inside, and Ashton feels almost breathless. For the first time in months, he feels the vulnerability of being taken care of, the same vulnerability Michael must have felt this past year. But there’s trust involved, and Ashton isn’t afraid.

“This is so nice,” Ashton says, awestruck. “I can’t believe—”

“Still gets better,” Michael interrupts. He stops at the front. “Reservation for two under Clifford?”

The server behind the counter nods with a polite smile and grabs two menus before leading them forward. They wind through the restaurant, Ashton shooting uncertain glances at Michael. Finally, they exit the back doors out onto the terrace overlooking the water. Ashton wants to cry at the beauty of it; the railing is laced with fairy lights and soft lamps illuminate the small area. There are only a few tables set out, which means they’ll have plenty of space to themselves. Their table has a candle set in the middle. The ocean is gentle as it washes over the shore, beautiful and endless. The view is so incredible Ashton is struck speechless.

“Oh, Michael,” he murmurs, touching his arm. “You—this is so—”

“Beautiful,” Michael completes for him. “Makes you forget how to form words.”

Ashton nods, glad Michael still has his tongue. “Wow. I don’t deserve all of this. I don’t deserve you, for sure.”

“Are you kidding?” Michael says softly, intertwining their hands together and drawing closer. “After everything you have done for me, I might not ever be able to pay you back.”

“You don’t have to,” Ashton says. “I did it because I loved you. Not as a favor.”

“Sirs?” the waitress reminds them politely. She puts one menu at each chair and they take their seats. “Can I bring you anything to drink?”

“Just water,” Ashton says easily. Michael nods and asks for the same. “You should have bought yourself something, you know. I’m guessing you’re using your new paychecks for this.”

Michael nods, looking pleased with himself. “This _is_ for me, you know. I can’t think of anything better to do with my money than spend it on this.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” Michael grins. “I know how long you’ve been waiting to move things along.”

Ashton flushes. “I didn’t mind. I just wanted you to be ready. You weren’t so we waited. I don’t mind that at all.”

“Thank you for that.” Michael examines his menu. “What do people talk about on first dates?”

The question is so innocent, it takes Ashton by surprise; it’s hard to pretend now that either one of them is at all innocent.

“Haven’t you ever been on one?”

“Mm, no.” Michael pulls his lip between his teeth. “I fucked a few people before Oliver. You. Never dated, though.”

“Oh my god, I am so honored,” Ashton says, shaking his hand vigorously. “Nice to meet you, I’m Your First Date.”

“Oh my god, shut _up_ , you’ll embarrass me in front of all these people,” Michael says, sweeping a dramatic hand around the nearly empty terrace. “Careful, I might break up with you.”

“I’ll ask Luke out, don’t think I won’t.”

“Low blow.”

“You’re too far away,” Ashton says, scooting his chair around so they’re right next to each other.

“Aren’t we supposed to stare into each other’s eyes or some shit? Windows to the soul and all?”

“Hey. I’m the expert on first dates here. And I say this makes it easier to kiss and hold hands. And actually see the ocean.”

“Whatever you say,” Michael says. The waitress returns with a pad in hand, ready to hear their orders.

“I forgot to look at the menu,” Ashton says sheepishly. “Michael, help.”

“We’ll just share number 4,” Michael says after a moment’s thought. Ashton isn’t picky.

“I’ll be back with your order in a bit.”

“This is so exciting,” Michael says, practically bouncing. “This is fun. It’s fun, right?”

Ashton laughs out loud at Michael’s strangely childish antics. “Yeah, it’s fun.” He reaches and searches for Michael’s hand in the darkness, closing around it firmly. Michael settles, but the smile, the joy doesn’t leave. Maybe that’s a lucky diamond that was born from the coal, the rebirth. Michael experiences everything now ten times greater. Anything is a reason to rejoice, simply because they are alive and together.

The food comes quickly, and Michael’s eyes light up. “Wow.”

“You always were a foodie,” Ashton says fondly.

“Yeah. Because _look at this_. I bet it’s fantastic.”

Ashton giggles. “Try it, dork.”

Michael does, and purposely makes exaggeratedly pleasured noises. “Oh, yeah. That’s the stuff.”

Ashton digs his own fork in and takes a bite. He groans; Michael’s actually right. “Alright. You did good. This is mindblowing.”

After a few minutes, Ashton perks up. “You know, I should introduce you to a date classic,” he suggests. He takes a forkful of food and shoves it into Michael’s mouth. Michael flails briefly and then regains his composure. When he has recovered, he kicks Ashton.

“You could have choked me,” he says, almost offended. Almost. “I don’t like first dates.”

“How about a second one instead?” Ashton asks, eyes twinkling.

After Michael stops kissing him, Ashton thinks his whole world is on fire.

 

* * *

 

They’re on the bed, hands everywhere; everything is white hot and blinding, so much more than ever before. There is desperation, but it is different from how they started; they cannot stop touching, they cannot stop feeling.

There’s nothing but skin sliding on skin, slick sweat covering every inch. Michael’s hands are knotted in Ashton’s hair as he lays underneath, blue-green eyes glistening in the moonlight. Ashton runs his hands over soft skin and leans down to kiss Michael; when the night is over, there won’t be an inch of him he hasn’t touched.

“Look so good like this,” Ashton whispers. Michael arches up against him, pliant as his beautiful eyes shut. Ashton shuts his own eyes; he cannot rid the image of Michael from his mind. He doesn’t need to see the beauty to know it’s there.

“Ash,” Michael whispers, gripping the bedsheets tighter. “Please. I can take it.”

Ashton is afraid of the fragility he is touching; Michael is so delicate and _breathtaking._ He makes the most beautiful sounds, says the most beautiful things, and Ashton is so in love it seems most days like he’s walking in a dream. But he knows that Michael is strong, in so many ways, and so he gives Michael everything he has, every ounce of his own strength and his love.

“I’m gonna,” Michael breathes, holding onto Ashton and kissing him hard. “Can I?”

“Wanna see you come,” Ashton whispers and Michael arches again, laying a shaking hand on Ashton’s cheek and letting out a broken moan as he reaches his high.

 _“God, I love you,”_ Michael cries, and then Ashton is following, burying his face in Michael’s neck and repeating the words back to him over and over in a voice so hoarse and soft he is afraid Michael won’t hear.

The room is unnaturally quiet in the minutes that follow, punctuated just by their breathing. Ashton is lying next to Michael now, gathering him in his arms and pressing his lips to his hair. He might never let go; everything he wants is in this bed, in his arms, squeezing him right back.

“I love you,” Ashton whispers again, overcome. “I love you so fucking much.”

“Thank you,” Michael whispers, leaning up and kissing him again. “I love you, I just—thank you. _For everything._ ”

In the morning, they’ll wake up together still wrapped up in each other.

In a month, Michael’s father will make the decision to support Michael and ask him to take Oliver to court; Michael never will, and he will never forgive or forget. He doesn’t want to.

In four months, Michael will make the decision to go to university and will major in psychology; he will someday be a therapist, and he will specialize in helping domestic abuse victims.

In a year, when they’re lying together in bed, Michael will tell Ashton of everything Oliver did.

He will tell Ashton about how it started small, how Oliver had begun by restricting what Michael was allowed to do and who he was allowed to see, eventually including seeing Calum, Luke, and finally Ashton. He will talk about how Oliver had started hitting him a month in, slamming him up against walls and leaving marks on his arms where he had held him too tightly. He will talk about how Oliver had begun leaving more permanent marks—deep cigarette burns—that will remain scarred into his hands until the day he dies. Then he will cry and ask to hold Ashton’s hand while he tells him about Oliver locking him in closets for hours, restricting the food he ate and hitting him for everything he took without permission, being made to clean with ammonia until his hands were raw, being driven to roadsides and walking home in the dark, being tied to the bedposts until his wrists were shredded.

Then he’ll tell Ashton about the night Oliver shoved him out of the car while it was still moving and then doubled back to stomp on his chest until it collapsed and slam his head into the asphalt over and over again and how he hadn’t fought back for the first time in his life because he knew it was the end. He will tell Ashton how he had lain there in the darkness blacking in and out of consciousness and remembered his face and recognized the streets, and found the will and strength to drag himself a block and up the apartment stairs, drowning in his own blood as it seeped into his lungs, to finally fall into Ashton’s arms.

He will tell Ashton that he had thought he was going to die, and that he wished for a long time that he had.

But he will tell Ashton that he knew Ashton would take care of him. And God, he had.

In a decade, maybe two, maybe three, when they’re married, Michael will be okay.

They don’t know all that yet, but it’s enough to have each other for tonight.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> inconsolable is complete.  
> thank you all who have read it, it's all i can hope for. i know it's a bit of a strange ending but i think it ties things together alright. please please PLEASE tell me what you thought of this chapter and the whole story overall. i'm shameless and i want compliments mostly lmao  
> love you all. i'll be working on mostly lashton from here on out (got flowers in your hair and a new one waiting) although i do have a tentative mashton story in the wings to honor my late grandfather. thank you all  
> xxxxxxxxxxxx


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